University of Virginia Library

BOOK IV. The Parables

“Ofttimes, dear Lady! while I listened close”—
Next morn, the Indian said:—“loath, by one stop,
To mar such noble music—I had will
To tell thee how the great Tathâgata
Spake many things in one mind with thy Lord.
Methought I heard our holy Books unroll,
Line after line, as thou didst featfully
Recite those sayings on the Mount. He, too,
Bade us not hate, but love; and conquer Hate
With Love; and let light cares of Life go by
Careless, because it is a show, which cheats;
And earthly treasures fade; and he is rich
Who lays up riches, in the Realm beyond,
Of deeds done well, and gentle service wrought,
And days without injuriousness. Mark, too,
Our Buddha would not know of enemies
More than thy Master. He commanded us,
‘If one upon the left shall wound thy hand,
And one upon the right shall bathe thy hand
With sandal-oil, and kiss it, bear to each
The same mild heart! So shall the smiter love,
Or—if not—vainly hate thee!’ Charity,
Mercy, and meekness, taught he:—for Love's sake
Utmost renunciation. Once, it fell
Buddh to a starving tigress gave his flesh;
Not fearing loss, for never can Love lose.
Yet, truly, nowise have we known before
Wisdom so packed and perfect, as thy Lord's,
Giving that Golden Rule that each shall do
Unto his fellow as he would have done
Unto himself; for, then, this Earth were Heaven,
And equity in every breast throned King.
Also, right joyous goes His doctrine; glad
'Mid Life's sad charms, and swift vicissitudes,
And Death's unshunned and hard perplexities
Which make us bear to live. But, Buddha held
Life was long sorrow, ignorantly prized,
Grievously reassumed from change to change;
Whirling sad souls upon The Wheel, unsaved,
Until they stay it, staying lust of days;
Ceasing to drink the false salt wave which breeds
Worse thirst—a wilder Trishna:—quit of quests,
And gliding, passionless and purged and sane,
Back to that Infinite where silence lives.
Om mani padme!—‘from the lotus-leaf
The Dewdrop sliding to the shining Sea,
When Sunrise comes!’”
But Mary's great eyes gleamed,
Crying:“Oh, Sir! in those good opening days
We were as glad as maids at marriage-time;
As jocund as the bird that hangs his heart—
Bursting with song—midway 'twixt Earth and Heaven,
And hath, to ravish it, the sky all his
Up to the utmost blue, and, green below,
The Earth his, down to that one dearest nook,
The little happy hollow in the grass
Where his mate listens on her warm grey eggs
In woven nest. So owned we two wide worlds,
Following behind Him, over Galilee.
Nay, and those never knew my Master's mind,
Nor touched the golden hem of what He taught,
Nor tasted honied lesson of His lips,
Who drew not from the treasure of those lips
Joyance to make him glad to live or die!
Wistful and woeful may well go, I know,
The days of those who, driven by the winds
Of strife, and avarice, and lust of eye,
Chase, what shall never be attained on Earth,
Contentment with the joys which are of Earth.
Who knows, but Miriam of Magdala,
How the red bubbles, bursting on the wine,
Foretell, at the cup's bottom, bitterness?
Truly, such souls are like our ‘gal-gal’ here—
If thou hast seen it,—the wild artichoke,
Which putteth forth brave branches in the spring,
Dying at autumn into dusty globes
That break, and fall, and roll, all helplessly,
Ten score together in a leaping crowd,
O'er hill and vale, bounding like things possessed;
Till the thorns take them, or the wrathful sea.
The Desert-rider reins his frightened beast,
As ‘the accursëd’ whirls, and cries in scorn:
‘Oh! gal-gal! whither goest thou to lodge?’
And the dry, miserable, ball replies:
‘Where the wind lodgeth for the night, I lie!’
“But we, who learned of Him the happy way,
Whom never once again Earth's winds can drive,
What is it if we die? whose eyes have seen
There is no Death! What is it if we live
A little woe-begone, when He hath passed
Patiently all our path, changing its stones
To rubies, and to rose blooms all its thorns,
With bright blood of His vainly-wounded feet?
What lover of Him shall be sad again
Seeing the Father through Him, touching hands
Of that large love which reaches out from Heaven,
In His pierced palms? He told us not one bird
Folds failing wings, and shuts bright eyes to die,
But That which gave their stations to the stars,
And marked the Seas their limits, and the Sun
His shining road, signed soft decree for this,
And did in pity plan kind consequence.
‘Yet you’—lightly He spake—‘are of more worth
Than many sparrows!’ Oh, good Friend! that soul
Hath done with sadness which knows Christ aright;
Not as Fear reads, but as quick Love reveals.
Also I think the woest shall scarcely miss
At end of evil, when Despair will lead
Souls to His feet, which would not come for Love.
Hardly, I hope, shall bloody Herod fail,
Nor Judas, who betrayed Him with the kiss,
Nor Pilate, who, for Cæsar, saw Him slain;
Nor any, at the last; since Grace and Power
Unmeasured, which forbid men's hearts to hate,
Themselves can never hate, nor finally,
See their sweet purpose foiled.
“But, in those days,
We were the Children of the Bride-chamber,
That could not fast, nor weep! Joy walked with us!
Mark with thine eyes what Land this is in spring!
The meadows cloth of gold, damasked and decked
With silk-leaved country-blossoms, and the hills
Girt with green forests, and with budding vines,
Their feet set deep in barley-fields and groves
Of fig and olive; where another world
Of sunshine-loving people live—the Doves,
The painted finches, and the crested larks,
Brook-tortoises, and storks, with busy swarms
Of banded bees, crickets, and creeping things,
Nowise forgotten, taking share of Earth.
He led us—Lord of lovely pastorals—
Through these fair paths, grown to seen Paradise,
Heaven being so near. Women and children drew—
Bright with the light of Love's new kingdom come—
Into His train; and gave Him laughing guards
Of little ones, who clustered round His knees—
Wiser and bolder than we others were—
Of dark-eyed wistful Syrian wives and maids
Glad to be poor, because He loved the poor
And made them wealthy with His word. The Lake,
The lonely peaks, the valleys, lily-lit,
Were synagogues. The simplest sights we met—
The Sower flinging seed on loam and rock;
The darnel in the wheat; the mustard-tree
That hath its seed so little, and its boughs
Widespreading; and the wandering sheep; and nets
Shot in the wimpled waters,—drawing forth
Great fish and small:—these, and a hundred such,
Seen by us daily, yet never seen aright,
Were pictures for Him from the page of life,
Teaching by parable.
“For, nowise else,
Taught He the people; since a light is set
Safest in lanterns; and the things of Earth
Are copies of the things in Heaven, more close,
More clear, more near, more intricately linked,
More subtly, than men guess. Mysterious,—
Finger on lip,—whispering to wistful ears,—
Nature doth shadow Spirit. Subjects, kings,
Diversities, degrees, prophets, and poets:
Lovers, together drawn invisibly
Like orbs that cleave across the Void; the babe
Who, coming helpless, finds its mother's breast,
Safe nursery and sweet food; the seed which dies
That it may live, laughing with lightsome blade
Death's dread away; the Darkness which would daunt
Save that it shows—what Day concealed—the stars;
The sleep which gives us back the body's strength,
But leaves the dreaming soul sleepless and 'ware;
Comforting nightly with grave's counterfeit;
Death without dying—living, but not Life!
The steadfast onward-moving march of change
In use and beauty; yea! and what obstructs
Of harm and evil,—for our World must grow
By Love's slow conquest of the stubborn will,
Free to will wrongly:—these be parables
For ever murmuring wider wonders, hints
Of what hides inner, deeper. What is Like
Is Likely; and the Life to come will be
Of such a fashion as this Life to-day
Writes in still symbols. Did we deem our fields
Tilled for no crop save what the sickle reaps?
He made them show how Heaven's wise husbandry
Sets good seed growing; parts the tares and wheat;
Winnows the chaff away. Did some man find
Hid shekels in a field,—old buried gold
Forgot of mouldering owner in the tomb—
And buy the field, selling, for joy thereof,
All that he had? He made us therefrom see
How sweet it is to want all sweetnesses,
Winning the Sweetest; and how cheap to own
What's priceless at a price; how light to part
With all we clove to once, gaining thereby
The treasure of the Kingdom. Did there come
Pearl-merchants out of Persia, trafficking
All their white findings for one moonlight gem,
Fished fortunate in Ormuz, or by reef
Deadly and ragged, of the Sea of Suph;
Fit to adorn the neck of Cæsar's wife?
He made them teach us how to fling aside
Small pearls for great. That corn, sown secretly,
Unseen at eve, but, when we passed at morn,
Greening the headlands, 'twas His text to tell
How still and sure the good deed grows i' the dark;
And shall not fail of fruit in his full time.
The shepherd whom we met in Gadara
Joyously striding as he brought to fold
That one lost lamb out of the hundred sheep
On his own shoulders, leaving lone, meanwhile,
The ninety and nine, safe in fat pasturage,
Passed piping on, not knowing he was grown
Type for us of the Eternal Love which seeks
Strays of the flock; and will not have them lost
For all its saints, and will not spare its toil,
'Mid thorns and thickets, till it find, and save;
Then makes more joy in Heaven for one lost sheep
Brought home, than all the folded ewes and rams
Knee-deep in grass of Paradise. And, once—
New from Perœa, o'er the star-lit sea
Sailing with Simon to His city's gates—
We spied a marriage-party:—torch, and lamp,
And cresset, flaring with great Cedar-knots,—
Dancing like fire-flies through Capernaum
To jocund music of much pipe and drum.
But—for the Bridegroom tarried—certain maids
Had slumbered; let their lamps die; and their wail—
‘Alalalai! no light! and, lo, he comes!’—
Was loud, because the wedding-doors stood closed.
Small thought those slothful damsels had, their rout,
Hither and thither hurrying, gowns ungirt,
Lamps swinging lightless, and th' uncared-for cry,
‘Oil! Sisters! Lend us oil!’ should thesis give
For fable of the Wise and Foolish ones;
The souls that wait and watch; the souls that drowse,
Letting Life's wick burn down; till midnight comes,
And here's the Bridegroom, with his feastful friends,
But, look! no light! and entrance quite forbid!
‘Watch, therefore,’ spake He, ‘for ye know nor day,
Nor hour!’
“Yet most He loved to teach of Love.
Wherefore, when tale was of a certain man
Dwelling—(we knew him)—by Tiberias,
That had two sons. And one, the Prodigal
Who asked his portion, gathered it, and went
To some far country, where he wasted all
In riotous living; till the ill-times fell,
And he had nought, and herded swine, and filled
His belly with the husks. Sitting at meat
In Simon's house, our Master took this tale,
And featly decked it forth with Wisdom's wealth,
Relating how that son ‘came to himself’
And cried:‘I will arise, and go unto
My Father, and will say that I have sinned,
Sinned against Heaven, and, Father! before thee,
And am not worthy to be called thy son,
Only thy hireling servant! Make me that!’
Then he arose, and came. And, oh! what heart
Throbbed not amongst us, while the Master told
Tenderly,—meaning all the World to hear,—
How—yet a long way off—his Father saw,
Saw him, and had compassion? Nay, he ran,
And fell upon his neck, and kissed the boy
Mouth to mouth; Father's lips on Son's lips pressed,
Staying his words of sorrowful self-blame
With dear impatience;—leading us to learn
That God's love runneth faster than our feet
To meet us stealing back to Him and peace,
And kisses dumb our shame, nay, and puts on
The best robe, bidding angels bring it forth,
While Heaven makes festival; for Angels' meat
Is happiness of Man.
“In such wise, He—
Plucking His themes, as Syrian girls pull flowers,
To spell dear names and speak the gentlest words,
From common wayside things in Galilee—
Taught us by Parable.”
The Indian cried,
“Thou Wise One! who didst sojourn in the Wild;
And feed the swine from fairest hands; and ache
With hunger for thine own fine food of Truth,
With waste of Love and Life; and didst arise,
And find forgiving arms, and take that kiss
Silencing shame! Now doth thy bright soul wear
A better beauty than dead Pappus saw,
Or love-sick Prætors! Whence are words to thank
These words which teach me where thy Jesus filled
The leaf of wisdom in, and wrote for men
The name Lord Buddha would not say nor spell?
Sweet stories, nathless, might thy servant cite
From Buddha's lips, teaching, as these do teach,—
By speech of Ganges, not of Galilee,—
How good seed grows to good, ill seed to ill,
Secretly; and the Treasure of the Law
How well it is to buy it at World's cost
If all this World were chrysolite, and ours;
And how Death is not, being new life masked,
Lest we long overmuch to die, and lose
Purpose of Earth:—but Change, for ever Change!
From seed, by darkness, to the blade again;
From Life, by rest and recompense, to Life,
From forms, by Karma, to some other form;
Which wheel shall whirl, till the awakened soul
Like a caged callow eagle, passion-caught,
Knows itself; and, indignant, spreads its wings
For that unbounded Quiet where is Home.
Thus did Buddh teach; and high Ahinsa's rule
To do no wrong, but bear wrongs patiently,
Yet this to conquer Ignorance; to break
From sense; to find that farther, truer World
Which shines—thou sayest it—beyond the seen.
Yea! this to serve the Self, and save the Soul,
Reaching Nirvâna, where, what seemed so dear,
Love, lieth dumb as Hate; Life dead as Death;
And the vast voice of endless Ecstacy
Is silence, and its Day eternal dream.
Who reigneth at that centre of the cirque
Him named he not, nor would he lift to Him
Prayers which were vain, if th' All-Knowing loves,
If th' All-Loving knows. Denying not,
Affirming not; but finding no word fit
Saving the Wordless, the Immeasurable:
But thou, reporting from thy Master's mouth,
On that Void stretching from thought's farthest flight
As far into the purple deeps of Night
As the last star—and farther—dost inscribe
This mighty name of ‘Love,’ and biddest believe
Not law, not fate, not fore-ordainëd course
Hath moulded what we are, and built the Worlds;
But living, regnant Love; dimly discerned
In glories of this house of Earth we own,
Paved with green meads and seas, and roofed with Heaven;
Dimly discerned in lovely shows that live
To whisper lovelier wonders; youth and strength,
The light of lustrous limbs, and laughing eyes;
Man's might and woman's beauty; clouds and flowers,
Jewels and birds, and all fair things for use.
Nor will thy matchless Master have this Love
Marred any way by evil; any whit
Hindered by hating. Hate and Evil hang,—
So must I gather—but as darkness hangs,
When Dawn, which broadens, is not rosy yet.
It shall not fail to gleam, dispelling glooms.
And, for the lingering of that Sun and Love
Which is to brighten all, 'tis Night! we dream!
And Time and Doubt portions of that false dream!
Nor would thy Master have one little life
Forgotten of this Love Divine. He sees
His Father's universes clustering close
Round the poor bird which dies—to minister
With winds that fan it, and with dews that bathe;
Those viewless forces, holding worlds at work,
Subservient to the meanest thing, in life,
And death, and after dying. Therefore, more,
Much more to Man, Earth's Lord, and King of things,
Also, who enters, if I gather well—
Into this Kingdom, in thy Master's train,
Hath, for its secret, not to love himself;
Nor seek to save himself; nor—lonely—wend
Over dead duties and affections slain,
Towards such Nirvâna; but to cherish still
His neighbour as himself; and save his soul
By losing heed of it, in heedful care
That all his doings profit men, and help
The sorrowful to hope, the weak to stand:
With heart, soul, mind, and strength loving this God,
Whom yet I reach not, tho' the foot of thought
Treads step for step with Christ in Galilee.
How fits with such a God the loveless strife
Of all things living? In the jungle, look!
What slaughter! and without it not a meal
For the young vultures, or the tiger-cubs.
Nay, over all thy Realm of Love this rules;—
Each slays a slayer, and in turn is slain.
How fits, with Love, this, and the wrongs of men
Too desperate for any right to atone;
The woes too hard ever to recompense;
The dried, but dreadful, unforgotten, tears;
The agonies intolerable, yet seen,
Yet suffered (thou didst say so) by that Power
Who tends the little bird, but gives it o'er
Helpless and piping to the falcon's beak?
If these things need not be, doth He not play
With the poor Earth? Shall it not fling Him back
His after bliss, indignant? If aught lets
And He that made them cannot help His Worlds—
Or, only by slow schemes, and painful paths,—
Shall we not scorn to call Him powerful;
Or ask to see Him nearer, and know more?”
“Wise Friend!” she sighed, “that which thou sayest now
Was—over-eager—said. One of our Twelve,—
One golden morning when the Earth seemed His—
By reason of those glorious works,—and Heaven
A Garden parted by the Blue, whose key
Hung at His girdle—pressed Him close, and spake:
‘Show us the Father, Lord!’ But He replied,
With grave eyes looking greatly past our light,
‘No man, at any time, hath seen Him! None!
Nor shall ye see Him nearer than by Me
Who am His Son!’ And, on another day,
Spake He: ‘So long hast thou been with Me here,
And not yet known Me, Peter? Who hath seen
Him that was sent, hath seen the Sender.’ Sir!
We did suppose,—what thy large learning holds,—
The Unnamed thereby shown the Infinite,
Incomprehensible, Unspeakable,
For ever and for ever unapproached,
And yet, for ever and for ever near
In loving immanence; revealed on earth
Doubtfully, as the minds of parents are
To ungrown children; most of all revealed
In days and deeds, in holy life and death,
And new life after death, of Christ our Lord.
But manifest—so did we read Him—here,
In whatso mirrors Love, the nursing Dove
Fasting to feed her couplets; the lone ewe
Battling against the eagle for her lamb;
The eagle's self, fierce to find meat to bear
Back to her nestlings; and the peasant-sires
Toiling that little ones fare well at home;
And mothers with the sucklings at their breasts,
And children tending joyously the old;
And he who helps the poor, and he that shares
Last measure of dates in the mid wilderness
With one that starves:—each tender deed and true,
Each word, thought, sacrifice, which helps the world,
By loving-kindness, use, and charity;
Nay, ‘even one cup of water,’ thus He said,
‘Given in My name,’ bring glimpse of God, and lead
Nearer and nearer to the Heart of Love.
Which shall be justified, when all is known,
And the Eternal Wisdom whispers,—glad,—
Its secret to the Soul, laughing to learn
Death was so friendly, and the toils of life
So fruitful for all living things; and pain
Seed of long pleasure; and our worst of woes
So like the foolish anguish of the Babe
Whereat the Mother, loving most, smiles most.
“Moreover, not by narrow Reason's ray
Shall this be ever compassed, but by light
Larger and brighter, shining from the heart.
And, in the house once, at Capernaum,—
His Twelve, disputing who was first, and chief—
He took a little child, knit holy arms
Round the brown, flower-soft boy; and smiled and said:
‘Here is the first and chiefest! If a man
Will be the greatest, see he make himself
Lowest and least; a servant unto all;
Meek as My small disciple here, who asks
No place, nor praise; but takes unquestioning
Love, as the river-lilies take the sun,
And pays it back with rosy folded palms
Clasped round My neck, and simple head reclined
On his Friend's breast,’
And, at another time,
When the pleased Mothers of the Lake would bring
Their infants to His knee; to touch that hand
Which touched the hands of Angels, and to take
Blessing from lips which spoke for Heaven;—those Twelve
Rebuked them, knowing not. But Jesus said:
‘Suffer the little ones to come to Me!
Forbid them not! Heaven's Kingdom is of such.’
And then went on: ‘Whoso shall not receive
The Kingdom as a little child, that Man
In no wise entereth in!’ Friend! should we err
Deeming He meant the simplest sould see most?
Is there not wisdom in the witless Babe?
New-coming to this life, so wonderful,
Finding, without his pains, without his will,
The tender Mother waiting; the sweet stream
Of breast-milk flowing; and his soft place made;
With sunlight for his days; and stars and moon
To gem the curtains of his sleep; and flowers
To tempt his feet to walk; and birds to teach
Carols of country joy when he would sing;
The child doth question nought, but takes this wealth
Lavished upon him in the dawn of life
With quiet opening heart, glad to be glad.
So doth he grow and learn, yet shall not learn
Ever a higher wisdom than to cling
Close to the loving bosom kept for him,
Content to trust, careless to understand.”
The grey sage said, with wrinkled brow bent low,
“Great is thy grace, oh, Lady Miriam!
Right surely hast thou won from those true lips
Learning's last word! 'Tis written in our books
Of Parabrahm, to shame all pride of mind,
‘He is unknown to those who think they know;
And known to whoso know they know Him not.’
Yet, as thy fair speech ran, much wondered I
That, teaching how this heavenly Love hath heed
Of all flesh living; how we sons of men
Lie in its lap, all children, dear alike,
Elder and younger; near and far; white, black;
The Jew, Greek, Syrian, and Sidonian,
Arab, Egyptian:—nay, and Indian;
Thy Jesus did not quit, some little while,
His slender world shut here; those peasant-hearts
Poorly perceiving Him; those narrow brows
Knitted against Him in false Nazareth;
And that proud, bitter, murderess on the hill,
Slayer of Prophets, red Jerusalem,—
Which, as we heard, did spill His blameless blood.
Why wended not His holy feet to them?
To us? to any? who had listened well;
And, glad with light of such bright missioning,
Crowned Him a King, indeed; and given Him Earth
To fill and foison with His Father's will?”
She answered: “Once, from green Gennesaret
Passed He, with certain, to the neighbouring coasts
Of Tyre; and would not have that any knew,
But could not veil His greatness. Thou hast seen
Perchance,—or from far-travelled merchant heard—
How stately sits, how strong, how beautiful
That city on her Island of the Sea,
Tyre of the temples, girt with mighty walls,
Which glass themselves like rocks, majestical,
In the green wave laving their feet;—filled full
With ships that come and go,—white birds of the sea
Flown from the farthest verges of the earth,
Spreading or folding wing;—and noise of oars
And ropes, and singing of the merchantmen.
There stood He, on the stair of Melicerth—
God of the City—while there came and went
Folk, as I think, from all the East and West;
Another world of men and women; loud
With traffick, and strange tumults, and new tongues;
And gay with many-coloured garbs. We saw
The thronged streets paved with coral; booths and shops
Bursting with store; long strings of camels; slaves
Bearing red jars of byssus, sealed for Rome;
Hewn cedar logs for Greece; honey, and oil,
Barley and balm and calamus; great bales
Of gum and cassia; with blue-broidered work.
And Tyrian girls danced by, before His eyes,
Clad in the purple peplums; beating skins
Of drum and cymbal; wreathed with myrtle flowers,
Singing their wild way down to Ashtoreth,
The hundred-breasted Goddess of the Moon,
Worshipped with blood. Mild stood the Master there
Watching the busy bright-hued heathen life,
With eyes like those sea-waters, showing half,
Half hiding the deep wonders underneath.
Whom, as He gazed, with, who shall tell what thoughts?
A woman, in the Greek dress, did accost
Plucking His robe, and crying: ‘David's Son!
I know Thee masterful and merciful,
Have pity on my child! A devil rends
Her tender flesh; but Thou, if Thou would'st come,
Could'st heal, and bring Thy servants peace and weal.’
Then He, grieved for the gilded wickedness
Of that fair city, fain for Galilee;
Answered: ‘First must the children's mouths be filled!
It is not well to take the children's bread,
And cast it to the dogs!’ At that, her eyes
Flashed with quick wit of anguish, and she cried:
‘Truth, Lord! but crumbs fall, and the dogs may eat
The children's tearings!’ Then beamed forth anew
That high look on His face, which comforted:
‘For this thy saying go in peace!’ He spake;
‘Thy little Maid is healed!’”
And she was healed!