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The toil begins again!
 It may begin
The hermit moaned.  Alas! we know not this,
Nor surely anything; yet after night
Day comes, and after turmoil peace, and we
Hate this accursed flesh which clogs the soul
That fain would rise; so, for the sake of soul,
We stake brief agonies in game with Gods
To gain the larger joys.
 Yet if they last
A myriad years, he said,  they fade at length,
Those joys; or if not, is there then some life
Below, above, beyond, so unlike life
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It will not change? Speak! do your Gods endure
For ever, brothers?
 Nay, the Yogis said,
 Only great Brahma endures: the Gods but live.
Then spake Lord Buddha:  Will ye, being wise,
As ye seem holy and strong-hearted ones,
Throw these sore dice, which are your groans and moans,
For gains which may be dreams, and must have end?
Will ye, for love of soul, so loathe your flesh,
So scourge and maim it, that it shall not serve
To bear the spirit on, searching for home,
But founder on the track before night-fall,
Like willing steed o er-spurred? Will ye, sad sirs,
Dismantle and dismember this fair house,
Where we have come to dwell by painful pasts;
Whose windows give us light  the little light 
Whereby we gaze abroad to know if dawn
will break, and whither winds the better road?
Then cried they,  We have chosen this for road
And tread it, Rajaputra, till the close 
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Though all its stones were fire  in trust of death.
Speak, if thou know st a way more excellent;
If not, peace go with thee!
Onward he passed,
Exceeding sorrowful, seeing how men
Fear so to die they are afraid to fear,
Lust so to live they dare not love their life,
But plague it with fierce penances, belike
To please the Gods who grudge pleasure to man;
Belike to baulk hell by self-kindled hells;
Belike in holy madness, hoping soul
May break the better through their wasted flesh.
 Oh, flowerets of the field! Siddhàrtha said,
 Who turn your tender faces to the sun 
Glad of the light, and grateful with sweet breath
Of fragrance and these robes of reverence donned
Silver and gold and purple  none of ye
Miss perfect living, none of ye despoil
Your happy beauty. O, ye palms, which rise
Eager to pierce the sky and drink the wind
Blown from Malaya and the cool blue seas,
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What secret know ye that ye grow content,
From time of tender shoot to time of fruit,
Murmuring such sun-songs from your feathered crowns?
Ye, too, who dwell so merry in the trees 
Quick-darting parrots, bee-birds, bulbuls, doves 
None of ye hate your life, none of ye deem
To strain to better by foregoing needs!
But man, who slays ye  being lord  is wise,
And wisdom, nursed on blood, cometh thus forth
In self-tormentings!
While the Master spake
Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet,
White goats and black sheep winding slow their way,
With many a lingering nibble at the tufts,
And wanderings from the path, where water gleamed
Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed
The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept
The silly crowd still moving to the plain.
A ewe with couplets in the flock there was.
Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind
Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped,
And the vexed dam hither and thither ran,
Fearful to lose this little one or that;
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Which when our Lord did mark, full tenderly
He took the limping lamb upon his neck,
Saying:  Poor woolly mother, be at peace!
Whither thou goest I will bear thy care;
 Twere all as good to ease one beast of grief
As sit and watch the sorrows of the world
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  tis 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
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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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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