Читать книгу Poems - John L. Stoddard - Страница 19

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O Buddha, of the mystic smile

And downcast, dreamful eyes,

To whom unnumbered sacred shrines

And gilded statues rise,

Whose fanes are filled with worshippers,

Whose hallowed name is sung

By myriads of the human race

In every Eastern tongue,

What means thy sweet serenity?

Our planet, as it rolls,

Sweeps through the starry universe

A mass of burdened souls,

Still agonized and pitiful,

Despite the countless years

That man has spent in wandering

Through paths of blood and tears!

O Lord of love and sympathy

For all created life,

How canst thou view thus placidly

The world's incessant strife,

The misery and massacre

Of war's destructive train,

The martyrdom of animals,

The tragedy of pain,

The infamous brutalities

To helpless children shown,

The pathos of whose joyless lives

Might melt a heart of stone?

Preeminently merciful,

Does not thy spirit long

To guard from inhumanity

The weak against the strong?

Thou biddest us deal tenderly

With every breathing-thing—

The horse that drags the heavy load,

The bird upon the wing,

The flocks along the riverside,

The cattle on the lea,

And every living denizen

Of earth and air and sea;

Yet daily in the shambles

A sea of blood is spilled,

And man is nourished chiefly

From beasts that he has killed!

And hunters still find happiness

In seeing, red with wounds,

A sobbing deer, with liquid eyes,

Dragged down by yelping hounds!

What is the real significance

Of thine unchanging smile?

Hast thou the secret consciousness

That grief is not worth while?

That sorrow is the consequence

Of former lives of sin—

The spur that goads us on and up

A nobler life to win?

That pain is as impermanent

As shadows on the hills,

And that Nirvana's blessedness

Will cure all mortal ills?

But agony is agony,

And small is the relief

If, measured with eternity,

Life's anguish be but brief.

To hearts that break with misery,

To every tortured frame

The present pain is paramount,

Nirvana but a name.

Moreover, why should former lives

Bequeath their weight of woe,

If with it comes no memory

To guide us, as we go?

If o'er the dark, prenatal void

No mental bridge be cast,

No thread, however frail, to link

The present to the past?

Still silent and dispassionate!

Ah, would that I might find

The key to the serenity

That fills thy lofty mind!

Thou hast a joy we do not feel,

A light we cannot see;

Injustice, sin, and wretchedness

No longer sadden thee;

No doubt to thy sublimer gaze

Life's mystery grows plain,

As finally full recompense

Atones for earthly pain.