BOOK I.

Northward from Ganges’ stream and India's plains

An ancient city crowned a lofty hill,

Whose high embattled walls had often rolled

The surging, angry tide of battle back.

Walled on three sides, but on the north a cliff,

At once the city's quarry and its guard,

Cut out in galleries, with vaulted roofs

Upborne upon cyclopean columns vast,

Chiseled with art, their capitals adorned

With lions, elephants, and bulls, life size,

Once dedicate to many monstrous gods

Before the Aryan race as victors came,

Then prisons, granaries and magazines,

Now only known to bandits and wild beasts.

This cliff, extending at each end, bends north,

And rises in two mountain-chains that end

In two vast snow-capped Himalayan peaks,

Between which runs a glittering glacial stream,

A mighty moving mass of crystal ice,

Crushing the rocks in its resistless course;

From which bursts forth a river that had made

Of all this valley one great highland lake,

Which on one side had burst its bounds and cut

In myriad years a channel through the rock,

So narrow that a goat might almost leap

From cliff to cliff — these cliffs so smooth and steep

The eagles scarce could build upon their sides;

This yawning chasm so deep one scarce could hear

The angry waters roaring far below.

This stream, guided by art, now fed a lake

Above the city and behind this cliff,

Which, guided thence in channels through the rock,

Fed many fountains, sending crystal streams

Through every street and down the terraced hill,

And through the plain in little silver streams,

Spreading the richest verdure far and wide.

Here was the seat of King Suddhodana,

His royal park, walled by eternal hills,

Where trees and shrubs and flowers all native grew;

For in its bounds all the four seasons met,

From ever-laughing, ever-blooming spring

To savage winter with eternal snows.

Here stately palms, the banyan's many trunks,

Darkening whole acres with its grateful shade,

And bamboo groves, with graceful waving plumes,

The champak, with its fragrant golden flowers,

Asokas, one bright blaze of brilliant bloom,

The mohra, yielding food and oil and wine,

The sacred sandal and the spreading oak,

The mountain-loving fir and spruce and pine,

And giant cedars, grandest of them all,

Planted in ages past, and thinned and pruned

With that high art that hides all trace of art,

Were placed to please the eye and show their form

In groves, in clumps, in jungles and alone.

Here all a forest seemed; there open groves,

With vine-clad trees, vines hanging from each limb,

A pendant chain of bloom, with shaded drives

And walks, with rustic seats, cool grots and dells,

With fountains playing and with babbling brooks,

And stately swans sailing on little lakes,

While peacocks, rainbow-tinted shrikes, pheasants,

Glittering like precious stones, parrots, and birds

Of all rich plumage, fly from tree to tree,

The whole scene vocal with sweet varied song;

And here a widespread lawn bedecked with flowers,

With clumps of brilliant roses grown to trees,

And fields with dahlias spread,not stiff and prim

Like the starched ruffle of an ancient dame,

But growing in luxuriance rich and wild,

The colors of the evening and the rainbow joined,

White, scarlet, yellow, crimson, deep maroon,

Blending all colors in one dazzling blaze;

There orchards bend beneath their luscious loads;

Here vineyards climb the hills thick set with grapes;

There rolling pastures spread, where royal mares,

High bred, and colts too young for bit or spur,

Now quiet feed, then, as at trumpet's call,

With lion bounds, tails floating, neck outstretched,

Nostrils distended, fleet as the flying wind

They skim the plain, and sweep in circles wide —

Nature's Olympic, copied, ne'er excelled.

Here, deer with dappled fawn bound o'er the grass,

And sacred herds, and sheep with skipping lambs;

There, great white elephants in quiet nooks;

While high on cliffs framed in with living green

Goats climb and seem to hang and feed in air —

Sweet spot, with all to please and nothing to offend.

Here on a hill the royal palace stood,

A gem of art; and near, another hill,

Its top crowned by an aged banyan tree,

Its sides clad in strange jyotismati grass,

By day a sober brown, but in the night

Glowing as if the hill were all aflame —

Twin wonders to the dwellers in the plain,

Their guides and landmarks day and night,

This glittering palace and this glowing hill.

Within, above the palace rose a tower,

Which memory knew but as the ancient tower,

Foursquare and high, an altar and a shrine

On its broad top, where burned perpetual fire,

Emblem of boundless and eternal love

And truth that knows no night, no cloud, no change,

Long since gone out, with that most ancient faith

In one great Father, source of life and light.

Still round this ancient tower, strange hopes and fears,

And memories handed down from sire to son,

Were clustered thick. An army, old men say,

Once camped against the city, when strange lights

Burst from this tower, blinding their dazzled eyes.

They fled amazed, nor dared to look behind.

The people bloody war and cruel bondage saw

On every side, and they at peace and free,

And thought a power to save dwelt in that tower.

And now strange prophecies and sayings old

Were everywhere rehearsed, that from this hill

Should come a king or savior of the world.

Even the poor dwellers in the distant plain

Looked up; they too had heard that hence should come

One quick to hear the poor and strong to save.

And who shall dare to chide their simple faith?

This humble reverence for the great unknown

Brings men near God, and opens unseen worlds,

Whence comes all life, and where all power doth dwell.

Morning and evening on this tower the king,

Before the rising and the setting sun,

Blindly, but in his father's faith, bowed down.

Then he would rise and on his kingdom gaze.

East, west, hills beyond hills stretched far away,

Wooded, terraced, or bleak and bald and bare,

Till in dim distance all were leveled lost.

One rich and varied carpet spread far south,

Of fields, of groves, of busy cities wrought,

With mighty rivers seeming silver threads;

And to the north the Himalayan chain,

Peak beyond peak, a wall of crest and crag,

Ice bound, snow capped, backed by intensest blue,

Untrod, immense, that, like a crystal wall.

In myriad varied tints the glorious light

Of rising and of setting sun reflects;

His noble city lying at his feet,

And his broad park, tinged by the sun's slant rays

A thousand softly rich and varied shades.

Still on this scene of grandeur, plenty, peace

And ever-varying beauty, he would gaze

With sadness. He had heard these prophecies,

And felt the unrest in that great world within,

Hid from our blinded eyes, yet ever near,

The very soul and life of this dead world,

Which seers and prophets open-eyed have seen,

On which the dying often raptured gaze,

And where they live when they are mourned as dead.

This world was now astir, foretelling day.

“A king shall come, they say, to rule the world,

If he will rule; but whence this mighty king?

My years decline apace, and yet no son

Of mine to rule or light my funeral pile.”

One night Queen Maya, sleeping by her lord,

Dreamed a strange dream; she dreamed she saw a star

Gliding from heaven and resting over her;

She dreamed she heard strange music, soft and sweet,

So distant “joy and peace” was all she heard.

In joy and peace she wakes, and waits to know

What this strange dream might mean, and whence it came.

Drums, shells and trumpets sound for joy, not war;

The streets are swept and sprinkled with perfumes,

And myriad lamps shine from each house and tree,

And myriad flags flutter in every breeze,

And children crowned with flowers dance in the streets,

And all keep universal holiday

With shows and games, and laugh and dance and song,

For to the gentle queen a son is born,

To King Suddhodana the good an heir.

But scarcely had these myriad lamps gone out,

The sounds of revelry had scarcely died,

When coming from the palace in hot haste,

One cried, “Maya, the gentle queen, is dead.”

Then mirth was changed to sadness, joy to grief,

For all had learned to love the gentle queen —

But at Siddartha's birth this was foretold.

Among the strangers bringing gifts from far,

There came an ancient sage — whence, no one knew —

Age-bowed, head like the snow, eyes filmed and white,

So deaf the thunder scarcely startled him,

Who met them, as they said, three journeys back,

And all his talk was of a new-born king,

Just born, to rule the world if he would rule.

He was so gentle, seemed so wondrous wise,

They followed him, he following, he said,

A light they could not see; and when encamped,

Morn, noon and night devoutly would he pray,

And then would talk for hours, as friend to friend,

With questionings about this new-born king,

Gazing intently at the tent's blank wall,

With nods and smiles, as if he saw and heard,

While they sit lost in wonder, as one sits

Who never saw a telephone, but hears

Unanswered questions, laughter at unheard jests,

And sees one bid a little box good-by.

And when they came before the king, they saw,

Laughing and cooing on its mother's knee,

Picture of innocence, a sweet young child;

He saw a mighty prophet, and bowed down

Eight times in reverence to the very ground,

And rising said, “Thrice happy house, all hail!

This child would rule the world, if he would rule,

But he, too good to rule, is born to save;

But Maya's work is done, the devas wait.”

But when they sought for him, the sage was gone,

Whence come or whither gone none ever knew.

Then gentle Maya understood her dream.

The music nearer, clearer sounds; she sleeps.

But when the funeral pile was raised for her,

Of aloe, sandal, and all fragrant woods,

And decked with flowers and rich with rare perfumes,

And when the queen was gently laid thereon,

As in sweet sleep, and the pile set aflame,

The king cried out in anguish; when the sage

Again appeared, and gently said, “Weep not!

Seek not, O king, the living with the dead!

‘ Tis but her cast-off garment, not herself,

That now dissolves in air. Thy loved one lives,

Become thy deva,who was erst thy queen.”

This said, he vanished, and was no more seen.

Now other hands take up that mother's task.

Another breast nurses that sweet young child

With growing love; for who can nurse a child,

Feel its warm breath, and little dimpled hands,

Kiss its soft lips, look in its laughing eyes,

Hear its low-cooing love-notes soft and sweet,

And not feel something of that miracle,

A mother's love — so old yet ever new,

Stronger than death, bravest among the brave,

Gentle as brave, watchful both night and day,

That never changes, never tires nor sleeps.

Whence comes this wondrous and undying love?

Whence can it come, unless it comes from heaven,

Whose life is love — eternal, perfect love!

From babe to boy, from boy to youth he grew,

But more in grace and knowledge than in years.

At play his joyous laugh rang loud and clear,

His foot was fleetest in all boyish games,

And strong his arm, and steady nerve and eye,

To whirl the quoit and send the arrow home;

Yet seeming oft to strive, he'd check his speed

And miss his mark to let a comrade win.

In fullness of young life he climbed the cliffs

Where human foot had never trod before.

He led the chase, but when soft-eyed gazelles

Or bounding deer, or any harmless thing,

Came in the range of his unerring dart,

He let them pass; for why, thought he, should men

In wantonness make war on innocence?

One day the Prince Siddartha saw the grooms

Gathered about a stallion, snowy white,

Descended from that great Nisaean stock

His fathers brought from Iran's distant plain,

Named Kantaka. Some held him fast with chains

Till one could mount. He, like a lion snared,

Frantic with rage and fear, did fiercely bound.

They cut his tender mouth with bloody bit,

Beating his foaming sides until the Prince,

Sterner than was his wont, bade them desist,

While he spoke soothingly, patted his head

And stroked his neck, and dropped those galling chains,

When Kantaka's fierce flaming eyes grew mild,

He quiet stood, by gentleness subdued —

Such mighty power hath gentleness and love —

And from that day no horse so strong and fleet,

So kind and true, easy to check and guide,

As Kantaka, Siddartha's noble steed.

To playmates he was gentle as a girl;

Yet should the strong presume upon their strength

To overbear or wrong those weaker than themselves,

His sturdy arm and steady eye checked them,

And he would gently say, “Brother, not so;

Our strength was given to aid and not oppress.”

For in an ancient book he found a truth —

A book no longer read, a truth forgot,

Entombed in iron castes, and buried deep

In speculations and in subtle creeds —

That men, high, low, rich, poor, are brothers all,

Which, pondered much in his heart's fruitful soil,

Had taken root as a great living truth

That to a mighty doctrine soon would grow,

A mighty tree to heal the nations with its leaves —

Like some small grain of wheat, appearing dead,

In mummy-case three thousand years ago

Securely wrapped and sunk in Egypt's tombs,

Themselves buried beneath the desert sands,

Which now brought forth, and planted in fresh soil,

And watered by the dews and rains of heaven,

Shoots up and yields a hundred-fold of grain,

Until in golden harvests now it waves

On myriad acres, many thousand miles

From where the single ancient seed had grown.

Thus he grew up with all that heart could wish

Or power command; his very life itself,

So fresh and young, sound body with sound mind,

The living fountain of perpetual joy.

Yet he would often sit and sadly think

Sad thoughts and deep, and far beyond his years;

How sorrow filled the world; how things were shared —

One born to waste, another born to want;

One for life's cream, others to drain its dregs;

One born a master, others abject slaves.

And when he asked his masters to explain,

When all were brothers, how such things could be,

They gave him speculations, fables old,

How Brahm first Brahmans made to think for all,

And then Kshatriyas, warriors from their birth,

Then Sudras, to draw water and hew wood.

“But why should one for others think, when all

Must answer for themselves? Why brothers fight?

And why one born another's slave, when all

Might serve and help each other?” he would ask.

But they could only answer: “Never doubt,

For so the holy Brahmans always taught.”

Still he must think, and as he thought he sighed,

Not for his petty griefs that last an hour,

But for the bitter sorrows of the world

That crush all men, and last from age to age.

The good old king saw this — saw that the prince,

The apple of his eye, dearer than life,

Stately in form, supple and strong in limb,

Quick to learn every art of peace and war,

Displaying and excelling every grace

And attribute of his most royal line,

Whom all would follow whereso'er he led,

So fit to rule the world if he would rule,

Thought less of ruling than of saving men.

He saw the glory of his ancient house

Suspended on an if — if he will rule

The empire of the world, and power to crush

Those cruel, bloody kings who curse mankind,

And power to make a universal peace;

If not this high career, with glory crowned,

Then seeking truth through folly's devious ways;

By self-inflicted torture seeking bliss,

And by self-murder seeking higher life;

On one foot standing till the other pine,

Arms stretched aloft, fingers grown bloodless claws,

Or else, impaled on spikes, with festering sores

Covered from head to foot, the body wastes

With constant anguish and with slow decay.

“Can this be wisdom? Can such a life be good

That shuns all duties lying in our path —

Useless to others, filled with grief and pain?

Not so my father's god teaches to live.

Rising each morning most exact in time,

He bathes the earth and sky with rosy light

And fills all nature with new life and joy;

The cock's shrill clarion calls us to awake

And breathe this life and hear the bursts of song

That fill each grove, inhale the rich perfume

Of opening flowers, and work while day shall last.

Then rising higher, he warms each dank, cold spot,

Dispels the sickening vapors, clothes the fields

With waving grain, the trees with golden fruit,

The vines with grapes; and when‘ tis time for rest,

Sinks in the west, and with new glory gilds

The mountain-tops, the clouds and western sky,

And calls all nature to refreshing sleep.

If he be God, the useful are like God;

If not, God made the sun, who made all men

And by his great example teaches them

The diligent are wise, the useful good.”

Sorely perplexed he called his counselors,

Grown gray in serving their beloved king,

And said: “Friends of my youth, manhood and age,

So wise in counsel and so brave in war,

Who never failed in danger or distress,

Oppressed with fear, I come to you for aid.

You know the prophecies, that from my house

Shall come a king, or savior of the world.

You saw strange signs precede Siddartha's birth,

And saw the ancient sage whom no one knew

Fall down before the prince, and hail my house.

You heard him tell the queen she soon would die,

And saw her sink in death as in sweet sleep;

You laid her gently on her funeral pile,

And heard my cry of anguish, when the sage

Again appeared and bade me not to weep

For her as dead who lived and loved me still.

We saw the prince grow up to man's estate,

So strong and full of manliness and grace,

And wise beyond his teachers and his years,

And thought in him the prophecies fulfilled,

And that with glory he would rule the world

And bless all men with universal peace.

But now dark shadows fall athwart our hopes.

Often in sleep the prince will start and cry

As if in pain,‘ O world, sad world, I come!’

But roused, he'll sometimes sit the livelong day,

Forgetting teachers, sports and even food,

As if with dreadful visions overwhelmed,

Or buried in great thoughts profound and deep.

But yet to see our people, riding forth,

To their acclaims he answers with such grace

And gentle stateliness, my heart would swell

As I would hear the people to each other say;

‘ Who ever saw such grace and grandeur joined?’

Yet while he answers gladness with like joy,

His eyes seem searching for the sick and old,

The poor, and maimed, and blind — all forms of grief,

And oft he'd say, tears streaming from his eyes,

‘ Let us return; my heart can bear no more.’

One day we saw beneath a peepul-tree

An aged Brahman, wasted with long fasts,

Loathsome with self-inflicted ghastly wounds,

A rigid skeleton, standing erect,

One hand stretched out, the other stretched aloft,

His long white beard grown filthy by neglect.

Whereat the prince with shuddering horror shook,

And cried,‘ O world! must I be such for thee?’

And once he led the chase of a wild boar

In the great forest near the glacier's foot;

On Kantaka so fleet he soon outstripped

The rest, and in the distance disappeared.

But when at night they reached the rendezvous,

Siddartha was not there; and through the night

They searched, fearing to find their much loved prince

A mangled corpse under some towering cliff,

But searched in vain, and searched again next day,

Till in despair they thought to bring me word

The prince was lost, when Kantaka was seen

Loose-reined and free, and near Siddartha sat

Under a giant cedar's spreading shade.

Absorbed in thought, in contemplation lost,

Unconscious that a day and night had passed.

I cannot reason with such earnestness —

I dare not chide such deep and tender love,

But much I fear his reason's overthrow

Or that he may become like that recluse

He shuddered at, and not a mighty king

With power to crush the wrong and aid the right.

How can we turn his mind from such sad thoughts

To life's full joys, the duties of a king,

And his great destiny so long foretold?”

The oldest and the wisest answered him:

“Most noble king, your thoughts have long been mine.

Oft have I seen him lost in musings sad,

And overwhelmed with this absorbing love.

I know no cure for such corroding thoughts

But thoughts less sad, for such absorbing love

But stronger love.”

“But how awake such thoughts?”

The king replied. “How kindle such a love?

His loves seem but as phosphorescent flames

That skim the surface, leaving him heart-whole —

All but this deep and all-embracing love

That folds within its arms a suffering world.”

“Yes, noble king, so roams the antlered deer,

Adding each year a branch to his great horns,

Until the unseen archer lays him low.

So lives our prince; but he may see the day

Two laughing eyes shall pierce his inmost soul,

And make his whole frame quiver with new fire.

The next full moon he reaches man's estate.

We all remember fifty years ago

When you became a man, the sports and games,

The contests of fair women and brave men,

In beauty, arts and arms, that filled three days

With joy and gladness, music, dance and song.

Let us with double splendor now repeat

That festival, with prizes that shall draw

From all your kingdom and the neighbor states

Their fairest women and their bravest men.

If any chance shall bring his destined mate,

You then shall see love dart from eye to eye,

As darts the lightning's flash from cloud to cloud.”

And this seemed good, and so was ordered done.

The king to all his kingdom couriers sent,

And to the neighbor states, inviting all

To a great festival and royal games

The next full moon, day of Siddartha's birth,

And offering varied prizes, rich and rare,

To all in feats of strength and speed and skill,

And prizes doubly rich and doubly rare

To all such maidens fair as should compete

In youth and beauty, whencesoe'er they came,

The prince to be the judge and give the prize.

Now all was joy and bustle in the streets,

And joy and stir in palace and in park,

The prince himself joining the joyful throng,

Forgetting now the sorrows of the world.

Devising and directing new delights

Until the park became a fairy scene.

Behind the palace lay a maidan wide

For exercise in arms and manly sports,

Its sides bordered by gently rising hills,

Where at their ease the city's myriads sat

Under the shade of high-pruned spreading trees,

Fanned by cool breezes from the snow-capped peaks;

While north, and next the lake, a stately dome

Stood out, on slender, graceful columns raised,

With seats, rank above rank, in order placed,

The throne above, and near the throne were bowers

Of slender lattice-work, with trailing vines,

Thick set with flowers of every varied tint,

Breathing perfumes, where beauty's champions

Might sit, unseen of all yet seeing all.

At length Siddartha's natal day arrives

With joy to rich and poor, to old and young — -

Not joy that wealth can buy or power command,

But real joy, that springs from real love,

Love to the good old king and noble prince.

When dawning day tinges with rosy light

The snow-capped peaks of Himalaya's chain,

The people are astir. In social groups,

The old and young, companions, neighbors, friends,

Baskets well filled, they choose each vantage-ground,

Until each hill a sea of faces shows,

A sea of sparkling joy and rippling mirth.

At trumpet-sound all eyes are eager turned

Up toward the palace gates, now open wide,

From whence a gay procession issues forth,

A chorus of musicians coming first,

And next the prince mounted on Kantaka;

Then all the high-born, youth in rich attire,

Mounted on prancing steeds with trappings gay;

And then the good old king, in royal state,

On his huge elephant, white as the snow,

Surrounded by his aged counselors,

Some on their chargers, some in litters borne,

Their long white beards floating in every breeze;

And next, competitors for every prize:

Twelve archers, who could pierce the lofty swans

Sailing from feeding-grounds by distant seas

To summer nests by Thibet's marshy lakes,

Or hit the whirring pheasant as it flies —

For in this peaceful reign they did not make

Men targets for their art, and armor-joints

The marks through which to pierce and kill;

Then wrestlers, boxers, those who hurl the quoit,

And runners fleet, both lithe and light of limb;

And then twelve mighty spearmen, who could pierce

The fleeing boar or deer or fleet gazelle;

Then chariots, three horses yoked to each,

The charioteers in Persian tunics clad,

Arms bare, legs bare — all were athletes in power,

In form and race each an Apollo seemed;

Yoked to the first were three Nisaean steeds,

Each snowy white, proud stepping, rangy, tall,

Chests broad, legs clean and strong, necks arched and high,

With foreheads broad, and eyes large, full and mild,

A race that oft Olympic prizes won,

And whose descendants far from Iran's plains

Bore armored knights in battle's deadly shock

On many bloody European fields;

Then three of ancient Babylonian stock,

Blood bay and glossy as rich Tyrian silk —

Such horses Israel's sacred prophets saw

Bearing their conquerors in triumph home,

A race for ages kept distinct and pure,

Fabled from Alexander's charger sprung;

Then three from distant desert Tartar steppes,

Ewe-necked, ill-favored creatures, lank and gaunt,

That made the people laugh as they passed by —

Who ceased to laugh when they had run the race —

Such horses bore the mighty Mongol hosts

That with the cyclone's speed swept o'er the earth;

Then three, one gray, one bay, one glossy black,

Descended from four horses long since brought

By love-sick chief from Araby the blest,

Seeking with such rare gifts an Indian bride,

Whose slender, graceful forms, compact and light,

Combined endurance, beauty, strength and speed —

A wondrous breed, whose famed descendants bore

The Moslem hosts that swept from off the earth

Thy mighty power, corrupt, declining Rome,

And with each other now alone contend

In speed, whose sons cast out, abused and starved,

Alone can save from raging whirlwind flames

That all-devouring sweep our western plains;

Then stately elephants came next in line,

With measured step and gently swaying gait,

Covered with cloth of gold richly inwrought,

Each bearing in a howdah gaily decked

A fair competitor for beauty's prize,

With merry comrades and some sober friend;

The vina, bansuli, sitar and harp

Filling the air with sweetest melody,

While rippling laughter from each howdah rang,

And sweetest odors, as from op'ning flowers,

Breathed from their rich apparel as they passed.

And thus they circle round the maidan wide,

And as they pass along the people shout,

“Long live the king! long live our noble prince!”

To all which glad acclaims the prince responds

With heartfelt courtesy and royal grace.

When they had nearly reached the palace gate

On their return, the king drew to the right

With his attendants, while the prince with his

Drew to the left, reviewing all the line

That passed again down to the judges’ seat,

Under the king's pavilion near the lake.

The prince eagerly watched them as they passed,

Noting their brawny limbs and polished arms,

The pose and skill of every charioteer,

The parts and varied breed of every horse,

Aiding his comrades with his deeper skill.

But when the queens of beauty passed him by,

He was all smiles and gallantry and grace,

Until the last, Yasodhara, came near,

Whose laugh was clearest of the merry crowd,

Whose golden hair imprisoned sunlight seemed,

Whose cheek, blending the lily with the rose,

Spoke of more northern skies and Aryan blood,

Whose rich, not gaudy, robes exquisite taste

Had made to suit her so they seemed a part

Of her sweet self; whose manner, simple, free,

Not bold or shy, whose features — no one saw

Her features, for her soul covered her face

As with a veil of ever-moving life.

When she came near, and her bright eyes met his,

He seemed to start; his gallantry was gone,

And like an awkward boy he sat and gazed;

And her laugh too was hushed, and she passed on,

Passed out of sight but never out of mind,

The king and all his counselors saw this.

“Good king, our deer is struck,” Asita said,

“If this love cure him not, nothing can cure.”