In yonder caverns with the priests who pray."

  "But," spake he to the herdsmen, "wherefore, friends,

  Drive ye the flocks adown under high noon,

  Since 't is at evening that men fold their sheep?"

  And answer gave the peasants: "We are sent

  To fetch a sacrifice of goats five score,

  And five score sheep, the which our Lord the King

  Slayeth this night in worship of his gods."

  Then said the Master, "I will also go."

  So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb

  Beside the herdsmen in the dust and sun,

  The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.

  Whom, when they came unto the river-side,

  A woman—dove-eyed, young, with tearful face

  And lifted hands—saluted, bending low

  "Lord! thou art he," she said, "who yesterday

  Had pity on me in the fig-grove here,

  Where I live lone and reared my child; but he

  Straying amid the blossoms found a snake,

  Which twined about his wrist, while he did laugh

  And tease the quick forked tongue and opened mouth

  Of that cold playmate. But, alas! ere long

  He turned so pale and still, I could not think

  Why he should cease to play, and let my breast

  Fall from his lips. And one said, 'He is sick

  Of poison'; and another, 'He will die.'

  But I, who could not lose my precious boy,

  Prayed of them physic, which might bring the light

  Back to his eyes; it was so very small

  That kiss-mark of the serpent, and I think

  It could not hate him, gracious as he was,

  Nor hurt him in his sport. And some one said,

  'There is a holy man upon the hill

  Lo! now he passeth in the yellow robe

  Ask of the Rishi if there be a cure

  For that which ails thy son.' Whereon I came

  Trembling to thee, whose brow is like a god's,

  And wept and drew the face cloth from my babe,

  Praying thee tell what simples might be good.

  And thou, great sir, did'st spurn me not, but gaze

  With gentle eyes and touch with patient hand;

  Then draw the face cloth back, saying to me,

  'Yea, little sister, there is that might heal

  Thee first, and him, if thou couldst fetch the thing;

  For they who seek physicians bring to them

  What is ordained. Therefore, I pray thee, find

  Black mustard-seed, a tola; only mark

  Thou take it not from any hand or house

  Where father, mother, child, or slave hath died;

  It shall be well if thou canst find such seed.'

  Thus didst thou speak, my Lord!"

  The Master smiled

  Exceeding tenderly. "Yea, I spake thus,

  Dear Kisagotami! But didst thou find The seed?"

  "I went, Lord, clasping to my breast

  The babe, grown colder, asking at each hut—

  Here in the jungle and towards the town—

  'I pray you, give me mustard, of your grace,

  A tola-black'; and each who had it gave,

  For all the poor are piteous to the poor;

  But when I asked, 'In my friend's household here

  Hath any peradventure ever died

  Husband or wife, or child, or slave?' they said:

  'O sister! what is this you ask? the dead

  Are very many, and the living few!'

  So with sad thanks I gave the mustard back,

  And prayed of others; but the others said,

  Here is the seed, but we have lost our slave.'

  'Here is the seed, but our good man is dead!'

  'Here is some seed, but he that sowed it died

  Between the rain-time and the harvesting!'

  Ah, sir! I could not find a single house

  Where there was mustard-seed and none had died!

  Therefore I left my child—who would not suck

  Nor smile—beneath the wild vines by the stream,

  To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and pray

  Where I might find this seed and find no death,

  If now, indeed, my baby be not dead,

  As I do fear, and as they said to me."

  "My sister! thou hast found," the Master said,

  "Searching for what none finds—that bitter balm

  I had to give thee. He thou lovest slept

  Dead on thy bosom yesterday: today

  Thou know'st the whole wide world weeps with thy woe

  The grief which all hearts share grows less for one.

  Lo! I would pour my blood if it could stay

  Thy tears and win the secret of that curse

  Which makes sweet love our anguish, and which drives

  O'er flowers and pastures to the sacrifice

  As these dumb beasts are driven—men their lords.

  I seek that secret: bury thou thy child!"

  So entered they the city side by side,

  The herdsmen and the Prince, what time the sun

  Gilded slow Sona's distant stream, and threw

  Long shadows down the street and through the gate

  Where the King's men kept watch. But when they saw

  Our Lord bearing the lamb, the guards stood back,

  The market-people drew their wains aside,

  In the bazaar buyers and sellers stayed

  The war of tongues to gaze on that mild face;

  The smith, with lifted hammer in his hand,

  Forgot to strike; the weaver left his web,

  The scribe his scroll, the money-changer lost

  His count of cowries; from the unwatched rice

  Shiva's white bull fed free; the wasted milk

  Ran o'er the lota while the milkers watched

  The passage of our Lord moving so meek,

  With yet so beautiful a majesty.

  But most the women gathering in the doors

  Asked: "Who is this that brings the sacrifice,

  So graceful and peace-giving as he goes?

  What is his caste? whence hath he eyes so sweet?

  Can he be Sakra or the Devaraj?"

  And others said, "It is the holy man

  Who dwelleth with the Rishis on the hill."

  But the Lord paced, in meditation lost,

  Thinking, "Alas! for all my sheep which have

  No shepherd; wandering in the night with none

  To guide them; bleating blindly towards the knife

  Of Death, as these dumb beasts which are their kin."

  Then some one told the King, "There cometh here

  A holy hermit, bringing down the flock

  Which thou didst bid to crown the sacrifice."

  The King stood in his hall of offering.

  On either hand, the white-robed Brahmans ranged

  Muttered their mantras, feeding still the fire

  Which roared upon the midmost altar. There

  From scented woods flickered bright tongues of flame,

  Hissing and curling as they licked the gifts

  Of ghee and spices and the soma juice,

  The joy of Iudra. Round about the pile

  A slow, thick, scarlet streamlet smoked and ran,

  Sucked by the sand, but ever rolling down,

  The blood of bleating victims. One such lay,

  A spotted goat, long-horned, its head bound back

  With munja grass; at its stretched throat the knife

  Pressed by a priest, who murmured: "This, dread gods,

  Of many yajnas cometh as the crown

  From Bimbasara: take ye joy to see

  The spirted blood, and pleasure in the scent

  Of rich flesh roasting 'mid the fragrant flames;

  Let the King's sins be laid upon this goat,

  And let the fire consume them burning it,

  For now I strike."

  But Buddha softly said,

  "Let him not strike, great King!" and therewith loosed

  The victim's bonds, none staying him, so great

  His presence was. Then, craving leave, he spake

  Of life, which all can take but none can give,

  Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep,

  Wonderful, dear and pleasant unto each,

  Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all

  Where pity is, for pity makes the world

  Soft to the weak and noble for the strong.

  Unto the dumb lips of his flock he lent

  Sad pleading words, showing how man, who prays

  For mercy to the gods, is merciless,

  Being as god to those; albeit all life

  Is linked and kin, and what we slay have given

  Meek tribute of the milk and wool, and set

  Fast trust upon the hands which murder them.

  Also he spake of what the holy books

  Do surely teach, how that at death some sink

  To bird and beast, and these rise up to man

  In wanderings of the spark which grows purged flame.

  So were the sacrifice new sin, if so

  The fated passage of a soul be stayed.

  Nor, spake he, shall one wash his spirit clean

  By blood; nor gladden gods, being good, with blood;

  Nor bribe them, being evil; nay, nor lay

  Upon the brow of innocent bound beasts

  One hair's weight of that answer all must give

  For all things done amiss or wrongfully,

  Alone, each for himself, reckoning with that

  The fixed arithmic of the universe,

  Which meteth good for good and ill for ill,

  Measure for measure, unto deeds, words, thoughts;

  Watchful, aware, implacable, unmoved;

  Making all futures fruits of all the pasts.

  Thus spake he, breathing words so piteous

  With such high lordliness of ruth and right,

  The priests drew back their garments o'er the hands

  Crimsoned with slaughter, and the King came near,

  Standing with clasped palms reverencing Buddh;

  While still our Lord went on, teaching how fair

  This earth were if all living things be linked

  In friendliness, and common use of foods

  Bloodless and pure; the golden grain, bright fruits,

  Sweet herbs which grow for all, the waters wan,

  Sufficient drinks and meats. Which when these heard,

  The might of gentleness so conquered them,

  The priests themselves scattered their altar-flames

  And flung away the steel of sacrifice;

  And through the land next day passed a decree

  Proclaimed by criers, and in this wise graved

  On rock and column: "Thus the King's will is:

  There hath been slaughter for the sacrifice,

  And slaying for the meat, but henceforth none

  Shall spill the blood of life nor taste of flesh,

  Seeing that knowledge grows, and life is one,

  And mercy cometh to the merciful."

  So ran the edict, and from those days forth

  Sweet peace hath spread between all living kind,

  Man and the beasts which serve him, and the birds,

  On all those banks of Gunga where our Lord

  Taught with his saintly pity and soft speech.

  For aye so piteous was the Master's heart

  To all that breathe this breath of fleeting life,

  Yoked in one fellowship of joys and pains,

  That it is written in the holy books

  How, in an ancient age—when Buddha wore

  A Brahman's form, dwelling upon the rock

  Named Munda, by the village of Dalidd—

  Drought withered all the land: the young rice died

  Ere it could hide a quail; in forest glades

  A fierce sun sucked the pools; grasses and herbs

  Sickened, and all the woodland creatures fled

  Scattering for sustenance. At such a time,

  Between the hot walls of a nullah, stretched

  On naked stones, our Lord spied, as he passed,

  A starving tigress. Hunger in her orbs

  Glared with green flame; her dry tongue lolled a span

  Beyond the gasping jaws and shrivelled jowl;

  Her painted hide hung wrinkled on her ribs,

  As when between the rafters sinks a thatch

  Rotten with rains; and at the poor lean dugs

  Two cubs, whining with famine, tugged and sucked,

  Mumbling those milkless teats which rendered nought,

  While she, their gaunt dam, licked full motherly

  The clamorous twins, yielding her flank to them

  With moaning throat, and love stronger than want,

  Softening the first of that wild cry wherewith

  She laid her famished muzzle to the sand

  And roared a savage thunder-peal of woe.

  Seeing which bitter strait, and heeding nought

  Save the immense compassion of a Buddh,

  Our Lord bethought, "There is no other way

  To help this murdress of the woods but one.

  By sunset these will die, having no meat:

  There is no living heart will pity her,

  Bloody with ravin, lean for lack of blood.

  Lo! if I feed her, who shall lose but I,

  And how can love lose doing of its kind

  Even to the uttermost?" So saying, Buddh

  Silently laid aside sandals and staff,

  His sacred thread, turban, and cloth, and came

  Forth from behind the milk-bush on the sand,

  Saying, "Ho! mother, here is meat for thee!"

  Whereat the perishing beast yelped hoarse and shrill,

  Sprang from her cubs, and, hurling to the earth

  That willing victim, had her feast of him

  With all the crooked daggers of her claws

  Rending his flesh, and all her yellow fangs

  Bathed in his blood: the great cat's burning breath

  Mixed with the last sigh of such fearless love.

  Thus large the Master's heart was long ago,

  Not only now, when with his gracious ruth

  He bade cease cruel worship of the gods.

  And much King Bimbasara prayed our Lord—

  Learning his royal birth and holy search—

  To tarry in that city, saying oft

  "Thy princely state may not abide such fasts;

  Thy hands were made for sceptres, not for alms.

  Sojourn with me, who have no son to rule,

  And teach my kingdom wisdom, till I die,

  Lodged in my palace with a beauteous bride."

  But ever spake Siddartha, of set mind

  "These things I had, most noble King, and left,

  Seeking the Truth; which still I seek, and shall;

  Not to be stayed though Sakra's palace ope'd

  Its doors of pearl and Devis wooed me in.

  I go to build the Kingdom of the Law, journeying to

  Gaya and the forest shades,

  Where, as I think, the light will come to me;

  For nowise here among the Rishis comes

  That light, nor from the Shasters, nor from fasts

  Borne till the body faints, starved by the soul.

  Yet there is light to reach and truth to win;

  And surely, O true Friend, if I attain

  I will return and quit thy love."

  Thereat

  Thrice round the Prince King Bimbasara paced,

  Reverently bending to the Master's feet,

  And bade him speed. So passed our Lord away

  Towards Uravilva, not yet comforted,

  And wan of face, and weak with six years' quest.

  But they upon the hill and in the grove—

  Alara, Udra, and the ascetics five—

  Had stayed him, saying all was written clear

  In holy Shasters, and that none might win

  Higher than Sruti and than Smriti—nay,

  Not the chief saints!—for how should mortal man

  Be wiser than the Jnana-Kand, which tells

  How Brahm is bodiless and actionless,

  Passionless, calm, unqualified, unchanged,

  Pure life, pure thought, pure joy? Or how should man

  Its better than the Karmma-Kand, which shows

  How he may strip passion and action off,

  Break from the bond of self, and so, unsphered,

  Be God, and melt into the vast divine,

  Flying from false to true, from wars of sense

  To peace eternal, where the silence lives?

  But the prince heard them, not yet comforted.

  Book The Sixth

  *

  Thou who wouldst see where dawned the light at last,

  North-westwards from the "Thousand Gardens" go

  By Gunga's valley till thy steps be set

  On the green hills where those twin streamlets spring

  Nilajan and Mohana; follow them,

  Winding beneath broad-leaved mahua-trees,

  'Mid thickets of the sansar and the bir,

  Till on the plain the shining sisters meet

  In Phalgu's bed, flowing by rocky banks

  To Gaya and the red Barabar hills.

  Hard by that river spreads a thorny waste,

  Uruwelaya named in ancient days,

  With sandhills broken; on its verge a wood

  Waves sea-green plumes and tassels 'thwart the sky,

  With undergrowth wherethrough a still flood steals,

  Dappled with lotus-blossoms, blue and white,

  And peopled with quick fish and tortoises.

  Near it the village of Senani reared

  Its roofs of grass, nestled amid the palms,

  Peaceful with simple folk and pastoral toils.

  There in the sylvan solitudes once more

  Lord Buddha lived, musing the woes of men,

  The ways of fate, the doctrines of the books,

  The lessons of the creatures of the brake,

  The secrets of the silence whence all come,

  The secrets of the gloom whereto all go,

  The life which lies between, like that arch flung

  From cloud to cloud across the sky, which hath

  Mists for its masonry and vapoury piers,

  Melting to void again which was so fair

  With sapphire hues, garnet, and chrysoprase.

  Moon after moon our Lord sate in the wood,

  So meditating these that he forgot

  Ofttimes the hour of food, rising from thoughts

  Prolonged beyond the sunrise and the noon

 

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