Classic Poem

‘Meantime I, the Accurst, was busy!
Whensoe'er I spake with mortals
Men grew gentle to each other,
While I taught them peaceful arts:

‘How to till the soil, to fashion
Roofs of stone against the tempest,
How to weave the wool for raiment,
Yoke the monsters of the field;

‘Fire I brought them,—teaching also
How to tame it to their uses,—
Turning ironstone to iron,
Frame the ploughshare and the sword;

‘Help'd by me they drain'd the marshes,
Lop'd the forest trees, and fashion'd
Ships that floating on the waters
Gather'd harvest from the Deep.

‘Bravely would my work have thriven,
Save for cunning Priests and Prophets,
Who, by dreams of God inflated,
Blunder'd ever like their Master. . . .

‘Yonder by the yellow Ganges
Rose the Temples of the Brahmin,—
Threefold there the mystic godhead,
Agni, Indra, Surya, reign'd.

‘By the impassive, cruel features
Well I recognised the Father,—
Huge as some primæval monster
Crawl'd He in the Vedic ooze.

‘Mystical, uncomprehended,
In their shadowy shrines He brooded,
Silent, and the souls of mortals
Crawl'd like fearful snakes before Him.

‘Thither, serpent-wise, I follow'd,
Whispering “Strange is God and mighty;
Yet, altho' He fashion'd all things,
Impotent in utter godhead.”

‘With my gospel pantheistic
I perplex'd their Priests and Prophets,
Tho' in spite of all my teaching,
Still they pray'd, and preach'd, and fasted.

‘Still the cloud of superstition
Darken'd Earth and shrouded Heaven,
While the shivering naked people
Trembled at the priestly thunder. . . .

‘Further East I wing'd, and burning
Like a sunbeam from the zenith,
On a sunlit mountain summit
Found the Persian, Zoroaster.

‘Crying, “If thou needs must worship
What transcends thine understanding,
Raise thine eyes, behold the Fountain
Whence the Light of Life is flowing!”

‘Him I left upon his mountain,
Crimson fires of dawn around him—
Gazing till his eyes were blinded
At his Sun-god, and adoring. . . .

‘On the threshold of his palace
Stood the monarch Arddha Chiddi,
Roseate robes of youth were round him,
Yet his eyes were full of sorrow;

‘Down beneath him on the river
Corpses foul of men and women
Floated seaward, gnaw'd and eaten
By the water-snakes and fishes.

‘Him I spake with, sadly showing
Death alone was lord and master
Over all the worlds created,
And that Death was surely evil.

‘Never since the world's beginning,
Throb'd a human heart more gentle—
In its secret fount of sorrow
Stir'd the living springs of pity:

‘From his palace door he wander'd,
Left the pomps of power behind him,
Wrapt a linen shroud about him,
Weeping for the woes of mortals.

‘Yet, in spite of all my teaching,—
How to snatch from Death and Sorrow
Strength to live and zeal to labour,
In despite of God the Father,—

‘He, the Buddha, sought ablution
In the waters of Nirwâna,
Crying loud “There is no Father—
Only Death and Change for ever!”

‘Thus, denying God, he entered
God's great darkness of Negation,
Till the living springs of pity
Froze at last to calm despair;

‘Till, denying yet believing,
Conquering yet by godhead conquer'd,
He to Death as Lord and Master
Bow'd the saintly head, and blest him!

‘Countless swarms of living creatures
Follow'd him into the darkness,—
White and wondrous o'er his kingdom
Rose the Temples of the Lama;

‘Countless millions still despairing
In his temples gather kneeling—
Priests of Lama, blindly praying,
Swing the piteous lamps of Death.

‘Thus the first and best of mortals
Conquer'd was, and o'er my Buddha
Brooded still the joyless, deathless,
Impotent Omnipotence!