Читать книгу The Sacred Writings of the East - 5 Books in One Edition - Edwin Arnold - Страница 11

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A broad mead spreads by swift Kohana's bank

At Nagara; five days shall bring a man

In ox-wain thither from Benares' shrines

Eastward and northward journeying. The horns

Of white Himala look upon the place,

Which all the year is glad with blooms and girt

By groves made green from that bright streamlet's wave.

Soft are its slopes and cool its fragrant shades,

And holy all the spirit of the spot

Unto this time: the breath of eve comes hushed

Over the tangled thickets, and high heaps

Of carved red stones cloven by root and stem

Of creeping fig, and clad with waving veil

Of leaf and grass. The still snake glistens forth

From crumbled work of lac and cedar-beams

To coil his folds there on deep-graven slabs;

The lizard dwells and darts o'er painted floors

Where kings have paced; the grey fox litters safe

Under the broken thrones; only the peaks,

And stream, and sloping lawns, and gentle air

Abide unchanged. All else, like all fair shows

Of life, are fled—for this is where it stood,

The city of Suddhodana, the hill

Whereon, upon an eve of gold and blue

At sinking sun Lord Buddha set himself

To teach the Law in hearing of his own.

Lo! ye shall read it in the Sacred Books

How, being met in that glad pleasaunce-place—

A garden in old days with hanging walks,

Fountains, and tanks, and rose-banked terraces

Girdled by gay pavilions and the sweep

Of stately palace-fronts—the Master sate

Eminent, worshipped, all the earnest throng

Catching the opening of his lips to learn

That wisdom which hath made our Asia mild;

Whereto four hundred crores of living souls

Witness this day. Upon the King's right hand

He sate, and round were ranged the Sakya Lords

Ananda, Devadatta—all the Court.

Behind stood Seriyut and Mugallan, chiefs

Of the calm brethren in the yellow garb,

A goodly company. Between his knees

Rahula smiled with wondering childish eyes

Bent on the awful face, while at his feet

Sate sweet Yasodhara, her heartaches gone,

Foreseeing that fair love which doth not feed

On fleeting sense, that life which knows no age,

That blessed last of deaths when Death is dead,

His victory and hers. Wherefore she laid

Her hand upon his hands, folding around

Her silver shoulder-cloth his yellow robe,

Nearest in all the world to him whose words

The Three Worlds waited for. I cannot tell

A small part of the splendid lore which broke

From Buddha's lips: I am a late-come scribe

Who love the Master and his love of men,

And tell this legend, knowing he was wise,

But have not wit to speak beyond the books;

And time hath blurred their script and ancient sense,

Which once was new and mighty, moving all.

A little of that large discourse I know

Which Buddha spake on the soft Indian eve.

Also I know it writ that they who heard

Were more—lakhs more—crores more—than could be seen,

For all the Devas and the Dead thronged there,

Till Heaven was emptied to the seventh zone

And uttermost dark Hells opened their bars;

Also the daylight lingered past its time

In rose-leaf radiance on the watching peaks,

So that it seemed night listened in the glens,

And noon upon the mountains; yea! they write,

The evening stood between them like some maid

Celestial, love-struck, rapt; the smooth-rolled clouds

Her braided hair; the studded stars the pearls

And diamonds of her coronal; the moon

Her forehead jewel, and the deepening dark

Her woven garments. 'T was her close-held breath

Which came in scented sighs across the lawns

While our Lord taught, and, while he taught, who heard—

Though he were stranger in the land, or slave,

High caste or low, come of the Aryan blood,

Or Mlech or Jungle-dweller—seemed to hear

What tongue his fellows talked. Nay, outside those

Who crowded by the river, great and small,

The birds and beasts and creeping things—'t is writ—

Had sense of Buddha's vast embracing love

And took the promise of his piteous speech;

So that their lives—prisoned in shape of ape,

Tiger, or deer, shagged bear, jackal, or wolf,

Foul-feeding kite, pearled dove, or peacock gemmed,

Squat toad, or speckled serpent, lizard, bat,

Yea, or of fish fanning the river waves—

Touched meekly at the skirts of brotherhood

With man who hath less innocence than these;

And in mute gladness knew their bondage broke

Whilst Buddha spake these things before the King:

Om, Amitaya! measure not with words

Th' Immeasurable; nor sink the string of thought

Into the Fathomless. Who asks doth err,

Who answers, errs. Say nought!

The Books teach Darkness was, at first of all,

And Brahm, sole meditating in that Night;

Look not for Brahm and the Beginning there!

Nor him, nor any light

Shall any gazer see with mortal eyes,

Or any searcher know by mortal mind,

Veil after veil will lift—but there must be

Veil upon veil behind.

Stars sweep and question not. This is enough

That life and death and joy and woe abide;

And cause and sequence, and the course of time,

And Being's ceaseless tide,

Which, ever-changing, runs, linked like a river

By ripples following ripples, fast or slow—

The same yet not the same—from far-off fountain

To where its waters flow

Into the seas. These, steaming to the Sun,

Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleece

To trickle down the hills, and glide again;

Having no pause or peace.

This is enough to know, the phantasms are;

The Heavens, Earths, Worlds, and changes changing them

A mighty whirling wheel of strife and stress

Which none can stay or stem.

Pray not! the Darkness will not brighten!

Ask Nought from the Silence, for it cannot speak!

Vex not your mournful minds with pious pains!

Ah! Brothers, Sisters! seek

Nought from the helpless gods by gift and hymn,

Nor bribe with blood, nor feed with fruit and cakes;

Within yourselves deliverance must be sought;

Each man his prison makes.

Each hath such lordship as the loftiest ones;

Nay, for with Powers above, around, below,

As with all flesh and whatsoever lives,

Act maketh joy and woe.

What hath been bringeth what shall be, and is,

Worse—better—last for first and first for last;

The Angels in the Heavens of Gladness reap

Fruits of a holy past.

The devils in the underworlds wear out

Deeds that were wicked in an age gone by.

Nothing endures: fair virtues waste with time,

Foul sins grow purged thereby.

Who toiled a slave may come anew a Prince

For gentle worthiness and merit won;

Who ruled a King may wander earth in rags

For things done and undone.

Higher than Indra's ye may lift your lot,

And sink it lower than the worm or gnat;

The end of many myriad lives is this,

The end of myriads that.

Only, while turns this wheel invisible,

No pause, no peace, no staying-place can be;

Who mounts will fall, who falls may mount; the spokes

Go round unceasingly!