University of Virginia Library

THE BRAHMAN'S LESSON.

One summer day a farmer and his son
Were working wearily in the harvest-field.
It was a lonesome place, and dangerous;
For now was come the season of the snakes,
Whereof the deadliest, a great, hooded Thing,
Did sting the young man so that suddenly
He died, for remedy in plant, or herb,
Medicinal root, or skill of leech, is none
Against the venom of that dreadful death,
That darkens the eyes at noonday as with night,
And chills the blood in the heart that beats no more.
This happened; and the father saw his son,
Struck out of life so early, lie there dead,
And saw the gathering of the hungry ants,
Nor sighed, nor ceased a moment from his work.
But now a Brahman chanced to pass that way,
And saw all this, but understood it not.
“Who is that man there dead?” “He was my son.”
“Thy son? Why dost thou not lament him, then?
Hast thou no love, nor sorrow for the dead?”
“And wherefore sorrow? From the first bright hour
When he is born, even to his last dark day,
Man's steps are deathward; everything he does
Sets ever that way; there is no escape.
For the well-doing there is recompense,
And for the wicked there is punishment.
Of what avail, when they are gone, are tears?
They can in nowise help us, or the dead.
But thou canst help me, Brahman, if thou wilt.
Go straightway to my house, and tell my wife
What hath befallen—that my son is dead;
And tell her to prepare my noonday meal.”
“What manner of man is this?” the Brahman thought,
Indignantly: “Insensate, ignorant, blind,
He has no human feeling, has no heart.”
So thinking, he drew near the farmer's house,
And called his wife: “Woman, thy son is dead.
Thy husband bade me tell thee this: and add
That he is ready for his noonday meal.”
The dead man's mother harkened to his words
As calmly as the sky to winds or waves.
“That son received a passing life from us,
From that old man, his father, and from me,
His mother, but I called him not my son.
He was a traveller halting at an inn,
Of which the master entertains the guests,
But not detains. He rested and passed on.
So is it, sir, with mothers, and with sons.
Why, then, should I lament what was to be?”
Still wondering, the troubled Brahman turned
To where the sister of the dead man was,
Bright in the lotus bloom of womanhood.
“Thy brother is dead. Hast thou no tears for him?”
She harkened gravely, as the forest doth
To the low murmur of the populous leaves.
“Sometimes,” she said, “a stalwart woodman goes,
And with his mighty axe hews down the trees,
And binds them fast together in a raft,
And in a seaward river launches them.
Anon the wild wind rises, and the waves,
Lashed in tumultuous warfare, dash the raft
Hither and thither, till it breaks asunder,
And the swift current, separating all,
Whirls all on ruinous shores, to meet no more,
Such, and no other, was my brother's fate.
Why, then, should I lament what was to be?”
Wondering still more, for still the awfulness
Of death, which they perceived not, was to him
As palpable as his shadow on the wall,
The Brahman addressed him to the dead man's wife:
“And thou, upon whose loving breast he lay,
Heart answering heart, with lips that breathed in sleep
Remembrance of endearments without end,
What wilt thou do without him day and night?”
She harkened tenderly, as the summer noon
To the continuous cooing of the doves;
“As when two birds, that fly from distant lands,
One from the East, the other from the South—
They meet, and look into each other's eyes,
And, circling round each other, bill to bill,
Seek the same nest, on temple roof, or tree,
And rest together till the dawn is come:
Such was my husband's happy life, and mine.
Was, but is not; for, as when morning breaks,
Awakened, the coupled birds forsake the nest,
And fly in opposite ways to seek their food;
They, if it be their destiny, meet no more.
Why, then, should I lament what was to be?”
Silenced by their submission, which was wise,
Whether the foolish heart think so or not,
The Brahman watched the women in the house,
As to and fro their slender figures moved
Athwart the sunlight streaming through the door,
While they prepared the farmer's noonday meal,
And, watching them, was comforted to learn
The simple secret of their cheerful faith,
That Death the natural sequence is of Life,
And no more dreadful in itself than Life.