— 1
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ^■y
 
 ^oofeB ftp Paul Clmtr iHorc 
 
 THE GREAT REFUSAL; Being Letters of a 
 Dreamer in Gotham. A Romance told in Let- 
 ters and Verses. i6mo, fi.oo. 
 
 A CENTURY OF INDIAN EPIGRAMS. Chiefly 
 from the Sanskrit of Bhartrihari. i6mo, $i.oo. 
 
 THE PROMETHEUS BOUND OF /ESCHY- 
 LUS. Translated into English. With an In- 
 troduction. i2mo, 75 cents. 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 Boston and New York.
 
 A CENTURY OF INDIAN 
 EPIGRAMS 
 
 CHIEFLY FROM THE SANSKRIT 
 
 OF BHARTRIHARI 
 
 BY PAUL ELMER MORE 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 (Ct)£ fiibersiDe ^rew, CambriDge 
 
 1899
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY PAUL ELMER MORE 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
 X5B4 
 
 *' They reckon ill who leave me out ; 
 
 JVhen me they fly ^ I am the wings; 
 I am the doubter and the doubt^ 
 
 And I the hymn the Brahmin sings." 
 
 754854
 
 To IRVING BABBITT, Esq. 
 
 My dear Babbitt, — So much of what I 
 have learned of Oriental things and have thought 
 about them is associated with your name, that it 
 seems now only natural to offer you this little 
 Oriental book. Let it serve as a memorial to you 
 of our life together in Cambridge, and of our many 
 peripatetic discussions regarding matters sacred 
 and profane, — peripatetic I call them, although, 
 as the poet says, our words often outnumbered 
 our steps and the days set briefer than our theme, 
 
 Te mihi iucundas efEciente vias. 
 
 The life of the ancient Brahmins was an unfail- 
 ing subject of argument, and we were fond of 
 comparing their doctrine with the discipline of 
 Buddha. Did we ever come to a conclusion .? 
 I think not. And now, as an aftermath of those 
 days, I have attempted in these translations to 
 bring together the verses I used to quote in illus- 
 tration of my views, or should have quoted if 
 memory had been faithful to her call. And, first
 
 -».) 2 (•* 
 
 of all, do not demur on reading the name of Bhar- 
 trihari at the head of these epigrams. Count them 
 up, and you will find the greater part taken from 
 his work, while precedent from India itself justi- 
 fied me in substituting other stanzas where his 
 own were not to my purpose. 
 
 As for Bhartrihari, I wish my study enabled me 
 to relate with certainty the story of his life ; but it 
 is all dark. This will not surprise you, for perhaps 
 no other people of the world have cared so little 
 for historical record as the Hindus. Their rulers, 
 their lawgivers, their revered sages, are for the most 
 part names only. Even in their more personal 
 literature the individuality of the poet is rarely 
 manifest ; and this is a witness to the sincerity of 
 their words who ever proclaimed the surrender of 
 earthly distinctions for the winning of a higher good. 
 Concerning Bhartrihari various traditions may be 
 read. Thus much apparently is true, that at some 
 early period in our era he reigned in Oujein, the 
 legend would add magnificently, to enhance his 
 later renunciation, as in the case of Buddha also. 
 Suddenly he was aroused from this voluptuous life 
 by an intrigue of the palace whose nature tradition 
 detects in one of the epigrams of our collections :
 
 Now judge ye ! — for a girl I walked forlorn. 
 
 Thereupon he abdicated the throne in favor of a 
 younger brother, and, withdrawing to the woods, 
 passed the remainder of his life in a cavern still 
 pointed out to the curious traveler at Oujein. 
 Here we may picture to ourselves the royal ere- 
 mite reclined at ease during the cool hours of 
 morning or evening twilight, looking out over 
 the valley land and the dusky city ; and we may 
 understand how at times, in the intervals of more 
 austere thought, the recollection of his former life 
 and of the rivalries of busy courtiers may have 
 brought a smile to his lips : — 
 
 How slow to him who haunts preferment's door 
 The long days drag! how lightly hurry o'er 
 When the awakened soul hath thrown aside 
 Its load of worldly pride! 
 
 So, lying near my cavern's rocky ledge, 
 I 'd dream at ease upon the mountain edge; 
 And laugh a litde in my heart, and then 
 Plunge into thought again. 
 
 Do the English words of this last line seem 
 familiar to you ? They are borrowed from a
 
 stanza of Matthew Arnold you were fond of quot- 
 
 ing 
 
 The East bow'd low before the blast 
 
 In patient, deep disdain; 
 She let the legions thunder past. 
 
 And plunged in thought again. 
 
 Bhartrihari wrote his epigram long ago and in 
 a far-olF land, but the sentiment of it is still new. 
 Just recently I read it to a friend who for years 
 had been a miner in the mountains of Colorado. 
 There, in a solitary hut built on a rocky ledge, he 
 passed summer and winter with a single compan- 
 ion, far removed from civilization. " Ay," said 
 he when I had read the verses, "your old Hindu 
 tells the simple truth ; every word of it might have 
 been written from my own experience." Such, 
 it is said, were the last years of our poet's life. 
 Nor must we suppose that their isolation oppressed 
 him with a feeling of special loneliness. He was 
 versed in the wisdom of his land, and must well 
 have pondered in his youth the celebrated lines 
 in the law-book, telling of a more universal and 
 inevitable loneliness of the spirit, whether in so- 
 ciety or solitude ; for it is written : —
 
 *) 5 (♦ 
 
 Alone each mortal first draws breath; 
 Alone goes down the way of death; 
 Alone he tastes the bitter food 
 Of evil deeds, alone the fruit of good. 
 
 Now this particular tale of the prince and her- 
 mit may be true or may not ; but that a royal 
 convert should abandon the luxury of his palace, 
 and choose a peaceful life of contemplation in the 
 forest, would be no more than a commonplace of 
 Indian experience. Their moralists indeed, and 
 Bhartrihari among them, speak of the three paths, 
 pleasure, worldly wisdom, and renunciation ; but 
 in reality they recognized only two ideals, between 
 which they could conceive no substantial ground of 
 mediation. Our poet states the contrast sharply 
 in one of his epigrams : " There are in the world 
 but two things that men may cherish, — either 
 the youth of fair girls who yearn ever for the 
 renewal of love's dallying, or else the forest-life." 
 And again, after the choice is made, he writes : 
 "Ho, Lord of Love! why weary thy hand with 
 ever twanging the bow ? Ho, sweet cuckoo bird ! 
 why warble in vain thy amorous songs ? And 
 thou, fair girl, turn otherwhere thy sly glances, 
 charged with languorous spells and sweet allure-
 
 -».) 6 (■*< 
 
 ments. Now is my mind plunged in the ambro- 
 sia of meditation at ^iva's feet." 
 
 We read of Buddha also that he fled from a 
 voluptuous court to seek salvation in the wilder- 
 ness. They but followed in the steps of innu- 
 merable holy men before them. In fact, such 
 a withdrawal from the world was definitely en- 
 joined on every Brahmin after his duties as house- 
 holder had been performed and his sons had come 
 to maturity. We have only to glance at their 
 ancient books to learn how commonly this precept 
 was obeyed. The Greeks, too, who became ac- 
 quainted with India under Alexander, came back 
 with marvelous accounts of these forest-dwellers 
 and gymnosophists. It was not so hard in that 
 warm climate to live in the wilderness, fashioning 
 for the body rough garments of bark-fibre, eating 
 of the abundant fruits, drinking the water of un- 
 polluted streams, bathing in the sacred pools, and 
 sleeping on gathered leaves. A village was not 
 far away, and the people were always glad to fill 
 the holy man's bowl with rice and fragments of 
 bread, if he chose to present himself for alms. 
 
 Two classes of hermits may be distinguished, 
 — those who practiced austerities, and those who
 
 merely sought a place of untroubled retirement. 
 The self-inflicted penance of the former was 
 often incredibly severe. The epics are replete 
 with exaggerated accounts of their endurance. 
 Such is the wild legend of the Sagarids, — of 
 the grandson of Sagara who for thirty-two thou- 
 sand years devoted himself to austerities on the 
 heights of Himalaya, and passed to heaven with- 
 out seeing the accomplishment of his desires ; of 
 the great-grandson who with arms raised aloft 
 stood in the midst of four fires and beneath the 
 blazing sun, nourishing himself on fallen leaves, 
 for a thousand years. Then at last the gods were 
 satisfied, and in answer to his prayer sent down 
 the sacred Ganga, or Ganges, from heaven ; whose 
 thunderous fall, the story says, (^iva first received 
 on his head, for otherwise it would have crushed 
 the world. So for many years the river strayed in 
 the matted locks of the god, until, finding an out- 
 let, it poured down on the earth. These are fool- 
 ish stories, but they indicate very well the ideal 
 which the anchorite held before him. His aim 
 was not so much to atone for sins as to fortify the 
 will by endurance until even the gods must tremble 
 at his word. To counteract the power of these
 
 '».) 8 (■•. 
 
 aspirants the gods often gave themselves to simi- 
 lar practices, and ^iva especially is represented as 
 engaging in the most fantastic forms of penance. 
 
 But, besides these savage persecutors of virtue, 
 many withdrew to the woods for the sake of un- 
 disturbed meditation. Some dwelt alone, like our 
 royal seer, thinking that wisdom is to be courted 
 in solitude. Others took their families with them 
 and lived together in friendly colonies. There 
 the intricacies of the Brahminical ritual might be 
 exchanged for pious contemplation, and the sacri- 
 fice in the imagination became as efficacious as 
 the actual offering on the altar. Genial debate 
 gave exercise to the mind, and the cultivation of 
 fruits and flowers might occupy the hands. There 
 is nothing more beautiful, nothing tenderer, in 
 Indian poetry than the portrayal of this forest-life 
 in many famous episodes of the Epics and in the 
 Drama of the Ring. 
 
 But to return to Bhartrihari, who chose rather 
 the deeper tranquillity of isolation. Under his 
 name we have a little book of epigrams called the 
 ^ataka-trayam, or Century-triad, in which he un- 
 folds in somewhat broken sequence his experience 
 of life. The first hundred stanzas are devoted to
 
 the love of woman, her charm and yet her baleful 
 influence. He sings the power and mischiev- 
 ous deeds of Kama, the Indian Eros, of whom 
 manv strange stories are told. Now Kama was 
 a mighty archer, though his arrows were tipped 
 only with flowers ; and often the gods themselves 
 had to lament the fatal accuracy of his aim. He 
 is a mighty angler as well. Women are his bait, 
 and we, poor silly fish, are caught on his hook 
 and then broiled on his fire, — a dainty repast for 
 a god, no doubt. 
 
 Of these stanzas devoted to women some are 
 very tender, some very bitter. Those that depict 
 her charms have a peculiarly melting, sympathetic 
 quality such as we find in our romantic poetry. 
 It is indeed worthy of remark that the Hindu treat- 
 ment of love and nature is in many ways more 
 akin to our own sentiment than are the classics. 
 Love, to be sure, is without the Platonic mania 
 which infests modern poetry, but otherwise is ex- 
 pressed with the same wistful tenderness so famil- 
 iar to us, and so foreign to the simpler, more virile 
 temper of Greece and Rome. Together with this 
 delicacy there is, however, a marked monotony in 
 the Hindu poets' delineation of women, due to an
 
 «•) 10 (•*. 
 
 inevitable habit of generalizing. They write not 
 of a particular woman but of the kind, repeating 
 certain conventional traits of description almost 
 without variation, and treating her, not as an indi- 
 vidual character, but as a symbol of sensual plea- 
 sure to be flattered or reviled, according to the 
 writer's temperament. 
 
 Natural description is introduced not merely to 
 give a locality for the action, as in the classics. 
 It is more closely identified with the mood of the 
 agent, and becomes highly symbolical as in writers 
 like our own Hawthorne. I know that this more 
 intimate feeling for Nature is not entirely wanting 
 in the classics, and that such general distinctions 
 are easily exaggerated. The sea in Homer has a 
 haunting, half mystical affinity with the moods of 
 his heroes. We remember the priest of Apollo 
 walking in silence by the shore of the many- 
 sounding sea. We remember that Achilles was 
 the child of an ocean goddess, and see him in his 
 wrath before his hut looking out over the tumult- 
 uous waters. Odysseus, when we first meet 
 him, is sitting on the beach, after his wont, gazing 
 homeward over the unharvested sea, wasting his 
 heart with tears and lamentations. And through-
 
 IS.) II (•*- 
 
 out the poem, to the last prophecy that his rest is 
 to come after establishing the worship of Poseidon 
 in a far inland country, always the ocean is inter- 
 woven with his destiny. In both poems the 
 "murmurs and scents of the infinite sea" are 
 never far away, and we cannot think of Homer's 
 world without repeating his words : — 
 
 TTcpi 0€ poos llKeavOLO 
 a.(fip<i} fiop/jivpwv pifv ao"7r€TOS. 
 
 In Lucretius the sky, the flammantia moen'ia 
 mund'i^ seems with its unspeakable terrors and in- 
 finite distances, " traversed by the moon and the 
 day, by the night with her austere constellations, 
 by night-wandering torches of heaven and flitting 
 fires, by clouds, sun, rains, snow, winds, lightnings, 
 hail, by swift shuddering sounds and mighty mur- 
 muring of threats," — the sky seems ever to stand 
 as the physical counterpart of the poet's own ti- 
 tanic thought, striving to note with mortal speech 
 immortal things. Virgil, too, might be adduced for 
 his use of the glad meadows and the works of 
 men ; but, after all, this symbolic treatment of the 
 outer world is sufficiently rare in antiquity to jus- 
 tify our comparison. The classical writers did 
 not as a rule search for this sympathetic spirit in
 
 '»') 12 (■*• 
 
 Nature, nor read in her varying aspects the expres- 
 sion of their own changeful moods. But in In- 
 dian poetry it is quite different. Here the world 
 loses its firm reality and seems but a shadow of the 
 inner man. Nor is it a wilful paradox to assert 
 that because of this very unreality of nature the 
 Hindu's feeling for it becomes in a way more in- 
 tensely real : his contact with it is closer and more 
 sympathetic, just because it is a mere projection 
 of his own personality. One need only read the 
 first Century of Bhartrihari to see how in this re- 
 spect Indian poetry approaches the methods of 
 mediaeval romance. Nature is here burdened with 
 human meaning ; birds and flowers, hills, sky, 
 winds, and streams, all the earth is redolent of 
 passion. In the springtide the song of the cuckoo 
 brings torture to those who are separated ; the 
 lotus flower multiplies in a myriad places one be- 
 loved countenance ; the a^oka tree may not open 
 its swelling buds until touched by a maiden's foot. 
 The second Century is perhaps less interesting 
 than either of the other two. Its subject is the 
 prudential ethics of worldly wisdom, pointed now 
 and then with sarcastic flings at fools, flatterers, 
 pedants, and all babblers ; elevated at times to the
 
 *.) 13 (•*' 
 
 expression of the highest and purest morality ; and 
 troubled again with bitter reflections on the brevity 
 and insufficiency of mortal existence. 
 
 There is a marked change on turning to the 
 third and last Century. We feel at once that 
 here the poet's heart is in his work when he sings 
 of the true wisdom, of the finding of peace, and 
 the gladness of his new life. To characterize 
 these stanzas would be to review the ideals of 
 Hindu philosophy, and it is better to allow Bhar- 
 trihari to speak for himself. One principle, and 
 that the fundamental one, of their religion, let me 
 touch upon briefly, because it is commonly over- 
 looked or perverted in systematic treatises on the 
 subject. We read constantly of the monism of the 
 Hindus, of their attempts to reduce all things to one 
 substance. But this statement must be accepted 
 with a reservation. In fact their intellectual atti- 
 tude is the result of a keen perception of the dual 
 nature of man and the world at large; and this 
 holds true even in the Vedanta, commonly cited as 
 the most radical of monistic systems. Furthermore, 
 it would hardly be too much to aver that the spirit- 
 uality of any philosophy or religion is measured 
 by its recognition of this contrast. The Iranians,
 
 '»') 14 (•* 
 
 nearest of kin to the Hindus, divided the universe 
 into two eternally hostile camps, the regnum lucis 
 and the regnum tenebrarum^ w^hich forever clash in 
 battle. And man, as containing in himself both 
 elements, must bear a part in the ceaseless conflict. 
 Saint Augustine cannot emphasize too strongly 
 the heinousness of sin, — sin, not eternal in its 
 nature nor yet a product of the body, but the aber- 
 ration of a free finite u'ill that denies allegiance to 
 its creator, the source of life, and vi^hose penalty 
 is death. Plato, speaking for Greece and tran- 
 scending its old philosophy, traces the discord of 
 existence to the opposition of spirit and matter; 
 and this, likevi^ise, is the theory of the Hindus. 
 They proclaim the irreconcilable enmity of the 
 soul and the body. Salvation vi^ith them, as 
 with the Greek, is a system of purgation, a dying 
 to the flesh, until the soul is made free to enjoy 
 its own unalloyed perfection. Plato affirms that 
 we can have knowledge only of the soul and of 
 essences similar to the soul ; touching the body 
 and material things, there is only ignorance, or at 
 best uncertain opinion. He is fond of identifying 
 knowledge and virtue, ignorance and vice, and of 
 avowing that by knowledge the wise man liberates
 
 himself from the world, — but knowledge of what ? 
 Hardly in Plato will you find an adequate answer 
 to this simple and inevitable question. Now the 
 Vedanta teaches the same doctrine of knowledge 
 and ignorance ; but it goes a step further, and 
 herein lie its clearness and originality. Regard- 
 ing the world without, we have only ignorance or 
 false opinion. It therefore exists for us only in 
 these, and for us ignorance is the cause of the 
 world. With the acquisition of knowledge igno- 
 rance is destroyed, and the world of which it is the 
 cause ceases for us to exist. We win deliverance 
 by knowledge, — and knowledge of what ? By 
 apprehension of this definite truth, that the soul 
 has real existence, and that the world has only a 
 phantom existence in illusion. Knowledge, it 
 may be added, is not a verbal conviction merely, 
 but something akin to faith, a realization of truth 
 that touches the whole character of man, spring- 
 ing up of itself by some strange incommunicable 
 force. 
 
 Such in brief is the aspiration that pervades 
 Sanskrit literature, and that finds expression in 
 these epigrams of Bhartrihari. It would be a sat- 
 isfaction to know that they really contain the
 
 -*•) i6 (•*- 
 
 meditations of the princely recluse of Oujein ; but 
 unfortunately they are preserved in so disorderly a 
 sequence, differing too so widely in various recen- 
 sions, and so many stanzas have been substituted 
 or added to the original three hundred, that doubts 
 arise regarding the authenticity of the whole col- 
 lection. Either Bhartrihari's name has been loosely 
 given to a floating anthology, as the name of Solo- 
 mon was similarly employed by the Jews, or else 
 a long succession of editors have altered and added 
 without scruple. For my own part I find in the 
 greater number of these poems so peculiar a flavor, 
 something so distinct from the other thousands of 
 epigrams in Boehtlingk's Anthology, that I accept 
 without hesitation their traditional origin. Out of 
 them I have selected for translation a number 
 which seem to contain the best expression of the 
 poet's ideas, and in lieu of explanatory notes have 
 added stanzas from other sources, freely, having 
 regard to the mixed and uncertain nature of the 
 Sanskrit collection. 
 
 And now, my dear Babbitt, with these words of 
 introduction to you and to the public, I would 
 place the little book in your hands. You will
 
 look in vain for any reproduction of the delicate 
 art, the subtle intricacies of rhythm, the inter- 
 woven assonances, the curiously wrought style, 
 of the original. Our language is not capable of 
 these, and must compensate them by artifices of 
 its own. Let me hope that some echo of Bhar- 
 trihari's wisdom and pathos may still be heard in 
 this English version. 
 
 Accept the volume also as a partial answer to 
 the question often discussed between us, whether 
 the Occident would find enlightenment or only 
 deeper confusion of mind from the study of India 
 and her religious life. By some strange gift of 
 fate, a few nations in the past have accomplished 
 a work once for all and not to be repeated. It is 
 not likely that another people shall arise like the 
 Greeks of the Periclean age, who shall possess so 
 keen a sense of harmony in form and action. A 
 solitary man or group of men may now and then 
 be found whose mind like theirs is attuned to 
 beauty, but we shall look and wait in vain for 
 such another generation. Many things in their 
 life we may censure, may account worthy even of 
 abomination, but one perfect gift they had from 
 their gods. Their forms have passed away with
 
 <«.) i8 (•* 
 
 their civilization, and cannot be revived or imi- 
 tated; but whoever would seek inspiration in art 
 and poetry at their fountain head must now and 
 always turn back to Athens and laboriously learn 
 her ancient speech. So, too, of the Romans we 
 may say that hardly shall the earth bear a second 
 time men of character and temper like these. 
 They have taught us, once for all, what the human 
 will can do. May we not add of the Hindus that 
 for one brief period in their development, during 
 that century when Zoroaster was teaching in Ira- 
 nia and Pythagoras in the West, they showed in 
 their discourse and in their lives a depth of reli- 
 gious sentiment, a grasp of things spiritual, that 
 still after so many ages affects us with wonder, 
 perhaps incredulity, — 
 
 ** And many are amazed and many doubt " ? 
 
 We cannot to-day — it is better so — reproduce 
 the literature of Greece; we should shudder at 
 the Roman sternness ; to call ourselves disciples 
 of Buddha or believers in Brahma — as some un- 
 stable minds are prone to do — would be super- 
 stition and not spirituality : yet to each of these 
 peoples we may turn for strength and consolation ;
 
 <».) 19 (•*- 
 
 nay, we must turn to them if we would fortify 
 our isolated life with the virtue and dignity of ex- 
 perience. 
 
 Bhartrihari wrote at a time when the thought 
 of India had already become stereotyped, and 
 verbal repetition had begun to take the place of 
 living inspiration. He has in him something of 
 his age ; we feel at times that the spirit is dead- 
 ened by the " sad mechanic exercise of verse." 
 On the other hand, no earlier poet can be found 
 whose work has sufficient perfection of form to 
 admit of acceptable translation. Take him all in 
 all, he may stand as no unfaithful exponent of a 
 literature the discussion of which gave so much 
 pleasure, and I trust profit, to our life together in 
 Cambridge : — 
 
 Quare habe tibi quidquid hoc libelli. 
 
 P. E. M. 
 
 Shelburne, N. H. 
 I December, 1897.
 
 INDIAN EPIGRAMS
 
 *) ^3 ('*' 
 
 One walketh in Renunciation's wayj 
 
 Another fain would pay 
 
 In Worldly Wisdom all his soul's large debt ; 
 
 And one in Pleasure's path 
 
 With love still wandering on would all forget : 
 
 Three roads the wide world hath.
 
 24 {'■ 
 
 II 
 
 In many a cavern on the wild hill-slopes 
 That near to heaven climb, 
 By many a pool, dwell eremites with hopes 
 That laugh at measured time. 
 
 They lave in the cool Ganga where it flows 
 Over the level rocks ; 
 
 They peer among the trees where ^iva goes 
 Tossing his matted locks ; 
 
 They breathe in joy : but we — alas that fate 
 Made woman's love so fair ! 
 For love restrains us in a world we hate. 
 Cajoled by woman's snare.
 
 ■') 25 {'■ 
 
 III 
 
 Girls with the startled eyes of forest deer, 
 And fluttering hands that drip 
 With sandal-water ; bathing-halls with clear 
 Deep pools to float and dip ; 
 
 The light moon blown across the shadowy hours, 
 Cool winds, and odorous flowers, 
 And the high terraced roof, — all things enhance 
 In Summer love's sweet trance.
 
 ^) 26 {'. 
 
 IV 
 
 This sodden air a needle scarce would prick ; 
 
 The wind dies in a gloom 
 
 Of dripping leaves; and the low clouds with 
 
 quick 
 Reverberations boom. 
 
 Bewildered by heaven's fire I blindly grope 
 Through the chill Autumn storm, 
 To love's bright chamber, where one heart, I hope, 
 With summer still is warm.
 
 27 {'■ 
 
 This Winter gale will play the gallant lover, 
 
 And meeting careless girls 
 
 Will pluck their gowns, and with rude fingers 
 
 hover 
 Among their tangled curls. 
 
 He '11 kiss their eyelids too, their cheeks caress 
 Till they are all a-tremble ; 
 He '11 tease their lips till murmurs soft confess 
 The love they would dissemble.
 
 28 {'■ 
 
 VI 
 
 'T is earth's Renewal : now the fluttering breeze, 
 Blown from the snowy hills 
 And filtered through the blooming mango trees, 
 The world with sweetness fills. 
 
 Now the mad bees are stung with brisk alarm; 
 
 And the wild cuckoos charm 
 
 The woods with singing, Well! ah well! 'tis 
 
 well ! 
 We yield to Kama's spell !
 
 ^) 29 {'■ 
 
 VII 
 
 The silvery laughter ; eyes that sparkle bold, 
 Or droop in virgin rue; 
 The prattling words of w^onder uncontrolled 
 When world and life are new; 
 
 The startled flight and dallying slow return, 
 And all their girlish sport; — 
 Ah me, that they time's ruinous truth must learn. 
 Their flowering be so short !
 
 u) 30 (•*. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Who hath escaped desire ? 
 
 And thou, O King, — what profit in thy wealth 
 When Time with creeping stealth 
 Has quenched thy youth and covered o'er love's 
 fire? 
 
 Nay, let us haunt the hall 
 
 Where loves forever call. 
 
 And girls with full-blown eyes like lotus flowers 
 
 Look laughing into ours, 
 
 Ere age and withering palsies blight us all.
 
 *) 31 (♦ 
 
 IX 
 
 A flower whose fragrance none hath savored, 
 A singing bird no ear hath favored, 
 White pearl no jeweler hath bored, 
 Untasted honey freshly stored 
 In a clean jar, unbroken fruit 
 That ripens now from virtue's root, — 
 Wondering I ask, O form unspotted. 
 To whose delight, sweet girl, thou art allotted ?
 
 ■') 32 {" 
 
 X 
 
 My love within a forest walked alone, 
 
 All in a moonlit dale ; 
 
 And here awhile she rested, weary grown. 
 
 And from her shoulders threw the wimpled veil 
 
 To court the little gale. 
 
 I peering through the thicket saw it all. 
 The yellow moonbeams fall, 
 I saw them mirrored from her bosom fly 
 Back to the moon on high.
 
 ') 33 (" 
 
 XI 
 
 O fair A^oka-tree, with love's own red 
 Thy boughs are all aflame ; 
 Whither, I pray thee, hath my wanton fled ? 
 This way I know she came. 
 
 In vain thy nodding in the wind, thy sigh 
 Of ignorance assumed ; 
 
 I know because my flower-love wandered by 
 For joy thy branches bloomed. 
 
 I know thee : ever with thy buds unblown, 
 Till touched by maiden's foot; 
 And thou so fair — one fairest maid alone 
 Hath trod upon thy root.
 
 34 (' 
 
 XII 
 
 Love's fruit in all the world is only this, 
 That two as one should think ; 
 And they that disagree yet woo love's bliss, 
 Dead corpse with corpse would link.
 
 35 ^ 
 
 XIII 
 
 Pluck the new - budding jasmine flower, and 
 
 wreathe 
 A garland for my brows ; 
 Let saffron on my flesh and sandal breathe 
 Their perfume of carouse ; 
 And then, O true love, lean upon my heart, 
 And all of heaven is there, or the best part.
 
 36 y 
 
 XIV 
 
 Brightly the hearth-fire leap, and the lit lamp 
 
 Be burning clear and high ; 
 
 Let sun or moon and starry hosts encamp 
 
 With beacons in the sky : — 
 
 Yet darkness in my heart and all is dark, 
 
 Till I behold thine eyes and their love-spark.
 
 37 {'■ 
 
 XV 
 
 But to remember her my heart is sad, 
 
 To see her is to know 
 
 Bewildered thoughts, and touching driveth mad,' 
 
 How is she dear that worketh only woe ?
 
 ♦) 38 (•* 
 
 XVI 
 
 A traveler pausing at the village well, 
 
 His hollowed palms a cup, 
 
 Bends down to drink, but caught as by a spell, 
 
 With thirst unslaked looks up. 
 
 And the fair keeper of the fountain stands, 
 Her girlish laughter stilled, 
 Nor careth from her urn into his hands 
 How thin a stream is spilled.
 
 39 (•' 
 
 XVII 
 
 " Why, pretty fool, art thou so slender grown ? 
 
 Thou tremblest ? and the prize 
 
 Of all thy roses, whither is it flown ? " 
 
 " My Lord, it meaneth nothing," she replies. 
 And smiles, — but when alone. 
 Loosing the tears upgathered in her eyes, 
 Poor fool, she sighs and sighs.
 
 u) 40 (•> 
 
 XVIII 
 
 With one they laugh and chatter, yet beguile 
 With luring eyes a second ; 
 A third they cherish in their heart the while, - 
 Their true love who hath reckoned ?
 
 41 {'■ 
 
 XIX 
 
 Now judge ye ! — For a girl I walked forlorn 
 Who laughed my vows to scorn ; 
 She loved another, who in coin repaid 
 Wooing a second maid. 
 
 And she, this second, making all complete. 
 Would worship at my feet. — 
 Four pretty fools and Kama with his malice 
 Thus drove me from my palace.
 
 ') 42 ('■ 
 
 XX 
 
 Harder than faces in a glass designed, 
 
 A woman's heart to bind ; 
 
 Like mountain paths up cragged heights that 
 
 twist, 
 Her ways are lightly missed. 
 
 Like early dew-drops quivering on a leaf. 
 Her thoughts are idly brief; 
 And errors round her grow, as on a vine 
 The poison-tendrils twine.
 
 43 (" 
 
 XXI 
 
 The sportive Love-god in this w^orldly sea 
 Angles continually ; 
 
 And women are his hook, their luring lips 
 The bait that bobs and dips. 
 
 We greedy fools, like silly nibbling fish. 
 Are landed with a swish; 
 And then, alack ! to end the cruel game 
 Are broiled on love's quick flame.
 
 
 ^) 44 (-, 
 
 XXII 
 
 O Wanderer Heart ! avoid that haunted grove, 
 The body of thy love; 
 
 Nor in her bosom stray, wild mountain fells 
 Where Love, the robber, dwells.
 
 45 {' 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Fair is her body as a lonely river 
 Whereon the moonbeams quiver; 
 About her waist three furrows in a row. 
 Like circling billows, go. 
 
 And there two swans their snowy plumage lave, 
 Soft riding on the wave ; 
 There water-lilies nodding — 't is her brow, 
 A whiter flower. — O Thou 
 
 That shudderest in this sea of life to sink, 
 Beware that river-brink : 
 
 Lo, in the darkness, in the depths, there dwell 
 Monsters unnamable.
 
 -«.) 46 (•*- 
 
 XXIV 
 
 In woman is the cause of shame, 
 For woman burneth hatred's flame, 
 Through woman in this body's snare 
 The soul is mewed, — of woman, ah! beware.
 
 ') M {'' 
 
 XXV 
 
 Who reared this labyrinth of doubt, 
 This leaguered town of reel and rout, 
 This house of scandal ? who hath sown 
 These fields where noisome weeds spring up 
 alone ? 
 
 This wizard's basket who hath stored 
 With all the conjurer's magic hoard 
 Of vain illusions ? — and the soul 
 But looking once forgets her blissful goal. 
 
 This barrier in the heavenly path, 
 This gateway to the pit of wrath. 
 Who made her then ? what hand perverse 
 Her moulded, man's inevitable curse ?
 
 48 {'■ 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Communion with the good is friendship's root, 
 
 That dieth not until our death ; 
 And on the boughs hang ever golden fruit : — 
 
 And this is friendship, the world saith. 
 
 Ourselves we doubt, our hearts we hardly know, 
 We lean for guidance on a friend ; 
 
 Ay, on a righteous man we'd fain bestow 
 Our faith, and follow to the end.
 
 ■') 49 {'' 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Like as the shadows of the twilight hour 
 
 Differ from those at morn, 
 
 So doth a good man's friendship in its power 
 
 From that of evil born : — 
 
 One small at first still stronger, deeper grows, 
 
 One shortens to the close.
 
 <».) 50 (•*' 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 By truth the righteous guide upon his course 
 The rolling sun, and stay the earth by force 
 
 Of penitence austere. 
 They are the refuge of the worlds outworn, 
 And worlds that lurk in darkness still are born 
 
 Because they tarry here.
 
 ') 51 (" 
 
 XXIX 
 
 A friend or stranger comes he ? — so 
 They reckon of the narrow mind ; 
 
 But some of broader reason know 
 In all the world one kith and kind.
 
 ') 52 ^ 
 
 XXX 
 
 Lightly an ignorant boor is made content, 
 
 And lightlier yet a sage ; 
 
 But minds by half-way knowledge warped and 
 
 bent, 
 Not Brahma's self their fury may assuage.
 
 ^) 53 (* 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Oil from the sand a man may strain, 
 If chance he squeeze with might and main ; 
 The pilgrim at the magic well 
 Of the mirage his desert thirst may quell. 
 
 So traveling far a man by luck 
 May find a hare horned like a buck ; — 
 But who by art may straighten out 
 The crooked counsels of a stubborn lout ?
 
 54 {' 
 
 I 
 XXXII 
 
 Better, I said, in trackless woods to roam 
 
 With chattering apes or the dumb grazing 
 herds, 
 
 Than dwell with fools, though in a prince's home. 
 And bear the dropping of their ceaseless words.
 
 ♦) 55 O 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 The god hath wove for ignorance a cloak 
 That he who will may wear ; 
 And mantled thus amid the wisest folk 
 Fools may unchallenged fare : — 
 Be silent ! over all that words afford, 
 Silence hath its reward.
 
 *) 56 {'■ 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 I saw an ass who bore a load 
 Of sandal wood along the road, 
 And almost with the burden bent, 
 Yet never guessed the sandal scent ; 
 So pedants bear a ponderous mass 
 Of books they comprehend not, — like the ass.
 
 57 (" 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Wisdom acquire and knowledge hive, 
 As thou a thousand years mightst thrive; 
 For virtue toil with sleepless care, 
 As Death already grasped thee by the hair.
 
 ■') 58 {' 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Say thou what kindly is and truth, 
 Say not the true that wakens ruth, 
 Say not the kind that is not sooth. 
 
 Yet rather silence were preferred, 
 And second truth, and the law third. 
 And only fourth the kindly word.
 
 ') 59 {- 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Where patience dwells what need of other shield ? 
 Why prate of foemen when to wrath we yield ? 
 More warmth our kindred give than fires ; and 
 
 friends 
 Far more than soothing herbs our wounds have 
 
 healed. 
 
 Why pray the gods whose heaven hy love is 
 
 wrought ? 
 Why slave for wealth when wisdom is unbought ? 
 
 What pearls can modesty adorn ? what gift 
 Of kings add splendor to the poet's thought ?
 
 u) 60 (•! 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 One law there is : no deed perform 
 To others that to thee were harm j 
 And this is all, all laws beside 
 With circumstances alter or abide.
 
 <«.) 6i (•*> 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Better from the sheer mountain-top 
 Headlong thy ruined body drop ; 
 Better appease the serpent's ire 
 With thy right hand ; or in the fire 
 Behold thy riven members tost, 
 Than once thy mind's integrity were lost.
 
 <••) 62 (•; 
 
 XL 
 
 This have I done, and that will do, 
 And this half-done must cany through 
 So busied, bustling, full of care. 
 Poor fools. Death pounces on us unaware. 
 
 To-day is thine, fulfill its work, 
 Let no loose hour her duty shirk; 
 Still ere thy task is done, comes Death, 
 The Finisher, — he ends it with thy breath.
 
 63 (^ 
 
 XLI 
 
 Unworthy be the toil-polluted world of sense, 
 Ay, hateful as the camping-ground of all offense ; 
 
 Yet even in the truth-devoted heart, anon 
 Breaks forth its vast unnamed impetuous vehe- 
 mence.
 
 u) 64 {'. 
 
 XLII 
 
 The rooted trees would walk ; the beast 
 For utterance yearning still is dumb ; 
 Man toils for some far heaven, wherefrom 
 
 The enthroned gods were fain released.
 
 65 e 
 
 XLIII 
 
 Pleasure of life we have not known. 
 Ourselves the sport of Fate alone ; 
 Penance of soul we never sought, 
 But in our heart unbidden sorrows wrought. 
 
 Time hath not journeyed, — nay, 
 But we are passing day by day ; 
 And the desires that still their rage 
 Are not grown old — ourselves are chilled with 
 aee.
 
 ^) 66 {'■ 
 
 XLIV 
 
 For buried treasures earth I bored, 
 I smelted all a mountain's hoard, 
 I crossed the outrageous boisterous seas, 
 And for a king's content I sold my ease. 
 
 By night I haunted the foul tomb 
 With spells to waken from their doom 
 The sleepers. — Did I e'er succeed 
 A farthing ? — out upon thee, cursed Greed ! 
 
 I
 
 ') 67 C 
 
 XLV 
 
 O'er perilous mountain roads with pain 
 I 've journeyed, yet acquired no gain ; 
 The pride of birth I have forsworn 
 And toiled in service, yet no profit borne. 
 
 In strange homes where I blushed to go 
 My food I've taken, like the crow. 
 And eaten shame. — Oh lust of gold ! 
 Oh Greed ! that younger grow'st as I wax old !
 
 u) 68 (•* 
 
 1 
 
 XLVI 
 
 Read ! — the Creator's finger on thy brow 
 Hath wrote the figure of thy wealth; nor thou 
 In lonely desert hid shalt make it less, 
 Nor greater on the Golden Mount possess. 
 What worry then ? why in the crowded mart 
 With vulgar traffic wear away thy heart ? 
 The pitcher at the well is filled, nor more 
 Draws at the ocean-shore.
 
 ■«<) 69 (•' 
 
 XLVII 
 
 A captive snake half dead with fright 
 Starved in a basket; till one night 
 A silly mouse, who roamed abroad, 
 A hole straight through the wicker gnawed, 
 And in his very gullet jumped. 
 The serpent felt his thin sides plumped. 
 Took cheer, and wriggled out in turn. — 
 Who knows all lucky falls in Fortune's urn ?
 
 ■') 70 (" 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 An old man bald as a copper pot, 
 Because one noon his head grew hot, 
 Crawled to a spreading bilva-tree 
 To seek the shade. By Fate's decree 
 A fruit just then came tumbling down, 
 And cracked the old man's brittle crown 
 With loud explosion — which was worse. 
 Ill dogs us everywhere when Fate 's averse.
 
 *) 71 {'■ 
 
 XLIX 
 
 I see a dog — no stone to shy at him; 
 
 Yonder a stone — no dog 's in view : 
 There is your dog, here stones to try at hini' 
 
 The king's dog ! what 's a man to do ?
 
 .) 72 ('■ 
 
 If the Creator moulding goodly man 
 
 A pearl designed him to adorn the earth, 
 And then so fragile made that at the birth 
 
 It breaketh, — whose the folly of the plan?
 
 -) 73 {'■ 
 
 LI 
 
 Rather this World forever as a wheel 
 Itself revolveth : sure, no guilty hand 
 Propelled it, nor shall any bid it stand, 
 
 Nor any wit a primal cause reveal. 
 
 And thou, my Soul, the same unlaureled race 
 Art dragging on through weary change of form ; 
 Nay, if to-day thou murmur in the storm, 
 
 Blame yesterday and choose to-morrow's place.
 
 ^) 74 (n 
 
 LII 
 
 Like as our outworn garments we discard, 
 And other new ones don ; 
 
 So doth the Soul these bodies doff when marred, 
 And others new put on. 
 
 Fire doth not kindle It, nor sword divides, 
 Nor winds nor waters harm ; 
 Eternal and unchanged the One abides, 
 And smiles at all alarm.
 
 ") 75 {'■ 
 
 LIII 
 
 Like as a goldsmith beateth out his gold 
 To other fashions fairer than the old, 
 
 So may the Spirit, learning ever more. 
 In ever nobler forms his life infold.
 
 76 
 
 LIV 
 
 The harvest ripens as the seed was sown, 
 And he that scattered reaps alone ; — 
 So from each deed there falls a germ 
 That shall in coming lives its source affirm. 
 
 Unseen they call it, for it lurks 
 The hidden spring of present works ; 
 Unknown before, even as the fruit 
 Was undiscovered in the vital root. 
 
 And he that now impure hath been 
 Impure shall be, the clean be clean ; 
 We wrestle in our present state 
 With bonds ourselves we forged, — and call it 
 Fate.
 
 11 
 
 LV 
 
 Before the Gods we bend in awe, 
 But lo, they bow to fate's dread law ; 
 Honor to Fate, then, austere lord ! 
 But lo, it fashions but our works' reward. 
 
 Nay, if past works our present state 
 Engender, what of gods and fate ? 
 Honor to Works ! in them the power 
 Before whose awful nod even fate must cower.
 
 78 {'■ 
 
 LVI 
 
 These dear companionships are not forever ; 
 
 The wheel of being without end 
 Still whirls : if on the way some meet and sever, • 
 
 'T is brother, mother, father, friend.
 
 79 {-• 
 
 LVII 
 
 Our little wit is all to blame, 
 And separation 's but a name ; 
 Else would our sorrow day by day 
 Grow deeper. — Lo, how swift it slips away ! 
 
 For as a log at random tost 
 On the wide waves perchance is crest 
 Here by another drifting spar, — 
 So on this sea of life our meetings are.
 
 <♦-) 8o (•! 
 
 LVIII 
 
 Wayfarers on the dusty road 
 By shaded wells their heavy load 
 Undoing rest awhile, and then 
 Pass on restored. — What cause of tears, O men ?
 
 8i {'■ 
 
 LIX 
 
 Like as a dancing-girl to sound of lyres 
 Delights the king and wakens sweet desires 
 
 For one brief hour, and having shown her art 
 With lingering bow behind the scene retires : 
 
 So o'er the Soul alluring Nature vaunts 
 Her lyric spell, and all her beauty flaunts ; 
 
 And she, too, in her time withdrawing leaves 
 The Watcher to his peace — 't is all she wants.
 
 .) 82 (* ^ 
 
 LX 
 
 Now have I seen it all ! the Watcher saith. 
 And wonders that the pageant lingereth : 
 
 And, He hath seen me ! then the Other cries. 
 And wends her way : and this they call the Death. 
 
 No more the Spirit feels, no more resolves ; 
 Yet as the potter's wheel awhile revolves 
 After the potter's hand is still, awhile 
 The body draws the breath, and then dissolves.
 
 ") 83 (•* 
 
 LXI 
 
 I wonder that the winged soul 
 Entered the body's hard control; 
 I wonder not when worn by age 
 The prisoned bird escapes the open cage.
 
 ^) 84 (^ 
 
 LXII 
 
 While other birds at will may go 
 Where the free winds of heaven blow. 
 You, silly prattler, as the wage 
 Of your sweet singing, languish in a cage.
 
 ■) 85 {- 
 
 LXIII 
 
 This World is blind to us that blinds the Soul ; 
 We find Illusion lord of all its laws, 
 We call our Ignorance its inner cause, 
 
 And Knowledge trust to break its long control. 
 
 Our Self we know, the knower and the known, 
 We name it Soul, we worship it as God ; 
 This Knowledge is the Lord, and at its nod 
 
 This We shall pass, and I remain alone.
 
 u) 86 (^ 
 
 LXIV 
 
 Here nothing is, and nothing there, 
 And nothing fronts me wheresoe'er; 
 And reckoning all I find the whole 
 Mere nothing, nothing — save the reckoning 
 soul.
 
 87 (^ 
 
 LXV 
 
 > 
 
 Seated within this body's car 
 The silent Self is driven afar 
 And the five senses at the pole 
 Like steeds are tugging restive of control. 
 
 And if the driver lose his way, 
 Or the reins sunder, who can say 
 In what blind paths, what pits of fear 
 Will plunge the chargers in their mad career ? 
 
 Drive well, O Mind, use all thy art. 
 Thou charioteer ! — O feeling Heart, 
 Be thou a bridle firm and strong ! 
 For the Lord rideth and the way is long.
 
 ^) 88 {- 
 
 LXVI 
 
 HE, in that solitude before 
 The world was, looked the wide void o'er 
 And nothing saw, and said, Lo I 
 Alone ! — and still we echo the lone cry. 
 
 Thereat He feared, and still we fear 
 In solitude when naught is near : 
 And, Lo, He said, myself alone ! 
 What cause of dread when second is not known ?
 
 89 {'■ 
 
 LXVII 
 
 Alone each mortal first draws breath ; 
 Alone goes down the way of death ; 
 Alone he tastes the bitter food 
 Of evil deeds, alone the fruit of good. 
 
 They cast him in the earth away, 
 They leave him as a lump of clay, 
 They turn their faces, they are sped, 
 And only Virtue follows, — he is dead. 
 
 So garner Virtue till the end 
 As 't were our only guide and friend ; 
 With it alone, when all is lost. 
 We cross the darkness, ah, so hardly crost.
 
 90 {'■ 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 Time is the root of all this earth ; 
 These creatures, who from Time had birth, 
 Within his bosom at the end 
 Shall sleep ; Time hath nor enemy nor friend. 
 
 All we in one long caravan 
 Are journeying since the world began ; 
 We know not whither, but we know 
 Time guideth at the front, and all must go. 
 
 Like as the wind upon the field 
 Bows every herb, and all must yield, 
 So we beneath Time's passing breath 
 Bow each in turn, — why tears for birth or death ?
 
 ') 91 {'■ 
 
 LXIX 
 
 A hundred years we barely keep, 
 Yet half of this is lost in sleep ; 
 And half our waking time we spend 
 In the child's folly and the old man's end. 
 
 And of the hours remaining, fears 
 And gaunt disease and parting tears 
 Are all the prize : — fie on the slave 
 Who life more values than a bubbling wave !
 
 92 (" 
 
 LXX 
 
 A while the helpless wailing child, 
 A while the youth by lusts defiled, 
 A while for gold to cringe and swink, 
 A while to hear the yelloyv counters clink : 
 
 A while of lonely eld's disgrace. 
 The palsied limb and wizened face, — 
 Then like the player he too creeps 
 Behind the heavy curtain — he too sleeps.
 
 u) 93 (* 
 
 LXXI 
 
 Fallen our father, fallen who bore 
 For us the pangs — they went before : 
 And some with our years grew, but they, 
 They too now tread on memory's dusty way. 
 
 And we ourselves from morn to morn 
 Now shiver like old trees forlorn 
 Upon a sandy shore, and all 
 Our care the lapping waves that haste our fall.
 
 •*) 94 (•' 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Old age like as a tiger held at bay 
 Still crouches ; sly diseases day by day 
 
 Our leaguered body sap ; 
 As water from a broken urn, so leak 
 Our wasting minutes ; — lo, this people seek 
 
 Oblivion in love's lap.
 
 ") 95 (" 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 Others for buried friends lament, 
 Or sigh for wealth too quickly spent: 
 Fret not, O King ; thy own grief call 
 Part of the fatal grief that toucheth all.
 
 .) 96 (•= 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 When like an arrow in the dark 
 Sorrow hath made our breast her mark, 
 Piercing the mail 'twixt link and link, 
 One balm there is, one salve: just not to think.
 
 ■') 97 {' 
 
 LXXV 
 
 Now Sorrow like a threefold chain 
 Grapples our heart with triple pain : 
 And one, the strongest bond I think, 
 Ourselves we forge and rivet link by link. 
 
 Another many-fingered Chance 
 Still weaves with daily circumstance ; 
 And one some strange malignant Might 
 Drops clanking round us from an unknown 
 height.
 
 98 (^ 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 Dear brother, I have found the way 
 Though steep and narrow : and they say 
 Of old 't was trod by many a seer 
 Who knew his end and climbed from sphere to 
 sphere. 
 
 Searching my heart I found the clue, 
 One truth though nothing else be true : 
 Sorrow within us and without. 
 And Sorrow nearer clinging when we doubt. 
 
 From yonder pure celestial height 
 Flooding our path a wondrous light 
 Pours on us ; and where'er we go. 
 This haunting shadow of ourselves we throw.
 
 "•) 99 (■*' 
 
 So be it : if along the track 
 On Sorrow still we turn our back, 
 We too may climb to that high doom 
 With light before us and behind the gloom.
 
 '■') 100 (^ 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 Fear troubles pleasure lest it sap our health ; 
 Fear marreth beauty for the hideous stealth 
 
 Of love ; fear prophesies to pride her fall; 
 Fear palsies strength, and warns the loss of 
 wealth. 
 
 Fear poisons learning for another's fame; 
 
 Fear haunts the flesh with dissolution's shame ; 
 Fear is to live ; — save when the soul with- 
 drawn 
 
 Looks out and laughs at the world's care and 
 claim.
 
 :.) 10 1 ('■ 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 All dearest things forsake us : — wealth is sped 
 To-day, or yet to-morrow love lies dead, 
 
 Or hope fades in a year. 
 Poor fools ! what matter when they go or how ? 
 Poor fools ! that cling and will not leave them 
 now, 
 
 Adding to loss a fear. 
 For if themselves they part what pangs they 
 
 leave ! 
 Nay, fling them forth, and the soul's peace receive. 
 
 Eternal now and here.
 
 ') 102 (-i 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 Life like the billow rolls, and youthful bloom 
 
 Finds in a day its doom; 
 
 Wealth fleeter is than fancy ; pleasure's lash 
 
 Is but the lightning flash ; 
 
 And these dear arms that hold our neck, beguile 
 
 Ah, but a little while : — 
 
 Rest then the heart in Brahma till we cross 
 
 This sea of being where all errors toss.
 
 u) 103 (^ 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Like an uneasy fool thou wanderest far 
 Into the nether deeps, 
 Or upward climbest where the dim-lit star 
 Of utmost heaven sleeps. 
 
 Through all the world thou rangest, O my soul, 
 Seeking and wilt not rest ; 
 Behold, the peace of Brahma, and thy goal, 
 Hideth in thine own breast.
 
 -) 104 ('•' 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 Idle thy wanderings, O my Heart ! and all 
 Thy labor vainly spent ; 
 By weight of inner destiny doth befall 
 Or faileth each event. 
 
 Bear not the burthen of a world outworn. 
 Nor to the future bow ; 
 With every hour thy joy be newly born, 
 And earth be new-created every morn, — 
 Thy life is here and now.
 
 -».) 105 C"* 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 No longer in this haunted jungle roam 
 With way-worn stumbling feet ; 
 Seek now the safer path that leadeth home, 
 Turn to thy last retreat. 
 
 Rest in the World's still heart ; thy little cares 
 Like wind-rocked billows roll, 
 And all thy pleasure as the light wind fares ; — 
 Now give thee peace, my soul !
 
 ') I06 (■; 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 Of old fair Learning served the wise to ward 
 
 Time's grieving from the heart ; 
 
 Then to the worldly bowed her to afford 
 
 The charms of sensual art ; 
 
 Now each new lordling of an ill-got field 
 
 Disdains her ; she must yield, 
 
 And deeper hides and farther draws apart.
 
 u) 107 {'• 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 Say not the words, " 'Tis I ! 'tis mine ! 
 
 They are the fatal seed 
 
 Of future lives upspringing like a weed. 
 
 Say rather, " 'Tis not I ! not mine ! " 
 New life from old desire 
 
 Still flames, — withhold the fuel, and where 's the 
 fire?
 
 u) io8 {'■ 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Before that peaceful Light whose form sublime 
 Is purest thought uncurbed of space or time, 
 Before that Light I bow, whose deathless source 
 Is self-communing force.
 
 109 {' 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 Within this body side by side 
 Death and eternity abide; 
 And death from error grows, but life 
 The spirit wrings from truth with hourly strife.
 
 ■-) no ('*' 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 The Seer enlightened lays apart 
 Follies that dizzy the child heart, 
 And upward turns his steps to climb 
 The terraced heights of Wisdom. There sub- 
 lime 
 
 He stands and unperturbed looks down 
 Upon the far-off swarming town, 
 Sees the bent farmers till the soil 
 Like burrowing ants, and wonders at their toil.
 
 ') "I {' 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 One boasted : " Lo, the earth my bed, 
 This arm a pillow for my head, 
 The moon my lantern, and the sky 
 Stretched o'er me like a purple canopy. 
 
 " No slave-girls have I, but all night 
 The four winds fan my slumbers light." — 
 And I astonished : Like a lord 
 This beggar sleeps j what more could wealth 
 afFord ?
 
 -) 112 (-5 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 Are there no caverns in the mountains left ? 
 Are all the forest boughs of leaves bereft 
 And mellowing fruit ? are the wild cataracts still 
 On every lonely hill ? 
 
 Why haunt the servile press ? or cringe and bow 
 To win the nod of some majestic brow 
 That wears for honor the low insolence 
 Of wealth — how got and whence ?
 
 I 
 
 u) 113 (* 
 
 xc 
 
 Of old they say this holy Ganga stream 
 Rolled in the heavenly fields her crystal dream, 
 And thence by prayer of saintly men was led 
 To pour on ^iva's head. 
 
 Awhile within the great god's matted locks 
 She wandered, till the high Himalayan rocks 
 Received her thunderous fall ; forever thence 
 Seaward she rolls immense.
 
 "4 
 
 XCI 
 
 O World! I faint in this thy multitude 
 Of little things and their relentless feud ; 
 No meaning have I found through all my days 
 In their fantastic maze. 
 
 O World ! still through the hours of blissful night 
 The widowed moon her benison of light 
 Outpoureth, where the sacred river seems 
 From heaven to bear sweet dreams. 
 
 How soon, O World ! beside the Ganga shore 
 Through the long silent night shall I implore 
 The mystic name ? how soon in Ganga's wave 
 My sin-stained body lave ?
 
 ') "5(^ 
 
 XCII 
 
 Is there no pleasure in these palace halls, 
 Where love invites and music ever calls ? 
 No pleasure, when the revelers troop away, 
 If one, the loveliest, stay ? 
 
 Yet have the prudent weighed the world as froth; 
 Lo, as a candle-flame by wing of moth 
 Is fluttered, so they count its fickle mood; 
 They turn to solitude.
 
 ^) 1 16 (■* 
 
 XCIII 
 
 Dear Heart, I go a journey, yet before 
 Would speak this counsel, for I come no more : 
 One love our life had, yet a greater still 
 The Spirit must fulfill. 
 
 Not now the wife is dear for love of wife, 
 But for the Self; and this our golden life 
 For life no more we treasure, it is dear 
 For that the Self dwells here. 
 
 And this beguiling world, the starry dome 
 Of purple and the gods who call it home, 
 Man, beast, and flowers that blow and blowing 
 perish. 
 Not for themselves we cherish,
 
 But for the Self. And this is love, and they 
 Who look for other on the lonely way 
 Are still forsaken. — Tremble not, dear Heart ! 
 Love stays though I depart.
 
 .) ii8 (. 
 
 XCIV 
 
 Courage, my Soul ! now to the silent wood 
 Alone we wander, there to seek our food 
 In the wild fruits, and woo our dreamless sleep 
 On soft boughs gathered deep. 
 
 There loud authority in folly bold, 
 And tongues that stammer with disease of gold, 
 And murmur of the windy world shall cease, 
 Nor echo through our peace.
 
 "9 
 
 xcv 
 
 These trodden lands are everywhere the haunt 
 Of wilder tribes than any crime may daunt ; 
 And haply some malignant poison-barb 
 May pierce thy plumed garb. 
 
 O silly parrot, in the secret boughs 
 Where peril may not find thee, make thy house: 
 Come, cease thy prattle, seal thy mouth at length, 
 Silence is all thy strength.
 
 -*- 
 
 ) 120 (■; 
 
 XCVI 
 
 Who is the Brahmin ? — Not the mother's womb 
 Declares him, nor the robes that all assume ; 
 But the true heart that never greed beguiles, 
 Nor turbid lust defiles. 
 
 Who is the Brahmin? — He who trembleth not 
 When snaps the cord that bound to human lot, 
 Who losing all is glad, whose peace is known 
 Unto himself alone.
 
 ') 121 (-5 
 
 XCVII 
 
 How slow to him who haunts preferment's door 
 The long days drag ! how lightly hurry o'er, 
 When the awakened soul hath thrown aside 
 Its load of worldly pride ! 
 
 So, lying near my cavern's rocky ledge, 
 I 'd dream at ease upon the mountain edge ; 
 And laugh a little in my heart, and then 
 Plunge into thought again.
 
 ^) 122 (j 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 Fire is the Brahmin's godj the seer 
 Knows in his heart the godhead near ; 
 Fools have their idol ; but the clear 
 Untroubled vision sees him there and here.
 
 ■') 123 {-■ 
 
 XCIX 
 
 Through many births, a ceaseless round, 
 I ran in vain, nor ever found 
 The Builder, though the house I saw, — 
 For death is born again, and hard the law^. 
 
 O Builder, thou art seen ! not so 
 Again thy building shall arise; 
 Broken are all its rafters, lovi^ 
 The turret of the mansion lies : 
 The mind in all-dissolving peace 
 Hath sunk, and out of craving found release.
 
 ") 124 {'■ 
 
 O mother earth ! O father air ! O light, 
 My friend! O kindred water! and thou height 
 Of skies, my brother! — crying unto you. 
 Crying, I plead adieu. 
 
 Well have I wrought among you, — now the day 
 Of Wisdom dawning strikes old Error's sway, 
 And the light breaks, and the long-waiting soul 
 Greeteth her blissful goal.
 
 I
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
 as^ 
 
 OCT 3 \ ^968 
 
 lOrn-ll, '50(2555)470 

 
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