 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
MORAL-SUBLIME
Sakya-mounie one day saw a tiger,
Shrunk i' the flanks, his staring ribbones bare,
Creep from the jungle, shuddering as if rigor
Of famine-stricken death had seized him there.
Shrunk i' the flanks, his staring ribbones bare,
Creep from the jungle, shuddering as if rigor
Of famine-stricken death had seized him there.
A splendid creature, but for pinching hunger,
With huge forearm, and ravenous white-toothed jaws,
Branded with beauty, when his days were younger,
But age had somewhat blunted teeth and claws.
With huge forearm, and ravenous white-toothed jaws,
Branded with beauty, when his days were younger,
But age had somewhat blunted teeth and claws.
Then said the Buddha; “Lo! this beast ferocious,
Devouring me, shall straight grow mild and meek,
And turn with horror from his deeds atrocious,
His spirit gentle as his skin grows sleek.
Devouring me, shall straight grow mild and meek,
And turn with horror from his deeds atrocious,
His spirit gentle as his skin grows sleek.
“For now he is a fell man-eating villain,
Watching for women going to the well,
Waiting the lonely traveller to kill in
The quiet evening, in the lonely dell.
Watching for women going to the well,
Waiting the lonely traveller to kill in
The quiet evening, in the lonely dell.
“But I shall be a graff in his wild nature,
To sweeten all his blood, and change his ways:
Wherefore I gladly offer the Creator
This ransom to redeem his evil days.
To sweeten all his blood, and change his ways:
Wherefore I gladly offer the Creator
This ransom to redeem his evil days.
“If he go on as now, he'll grow still wilder;
In him there is no spirit of sacrifice;
But, me devouring, he will soon turn milder,
And part with all his fierce blood-thirsty vice.”
In him there is no spirit of sacrifice;
But, me devouring, he will soon turn milder,
And part with all his fierce blood-thirsty vice.”
Laughing I read, half thinking that he jested,
Though he was nowise of the jesting kind;
And to the fancy which his thought suggested
Awhile I yielded up a willing mind.
Though he was nowise of the jesting kind;
And to the fancy which his thought suggested
Awhile I yielded up a willing mind.
I pictured him, then, and the jungle-tyrant,
Who scrupled not to smite him to the ground,
And bear him off, lest haply some aspirant
Might claim a share in that which he had found.
Who scrupled not to smite him to the ground,
And bear him off, lest haply some aspirant
Might claim a share in that which he had found.
546
Tigers, of course, have solitary habits,
And haunt where brown and yellow leaves are strewn;
They're not companionable beasts like rabbits,
And much prefer to eat their meals alone.
And haunt where brown and yellow leaves are strewn;
They're not companionable beasts like rabbits,
And much prefer to eat their meals alone.
Weak as he was, and perishing with hunger,
I saw him, with my mind's eye, take a leap,
And, with a snort of pleasure or of anger,
Bear off the Buddha to the nullah deep.
I saw him, with my mind's eye, take a leap,
And, with a snort of pleasure or of anger,
Bear off the Buddha to the nullah deep.
Did the poor victim feel the great fangs in him,
As they tore through the jungle to his lair?
And only think, What matter, if I win him
To pity those whom now he would not spare?
As they tore through the jungle to his lair?
And only think, What matter, if I win him
To pity those whom now he would not spare?
Or did he now repent, when it was plainly
Too late to think of anything but death?
Or did he think of nothing, but was mainly
Concerned to get a gasp of hurried breath?
Too late to think of anything but death?
Or did he think of nothing, but was mainly
Concerned to get a gasp of hurried breath?
The tiger had his meal—I'll not describe it;
These creatures are not nice—then laid him down,
With good digestion slowly to imbibe it
Into his system well, from claw to crown.
These creatures are not nice—then laid him down,
With good digestion slowly to imbibe it
Into his system well, from claw to crown.
But there were some odd fragments—not to harrow
Your feelings, for your flesh might creep at this—
Them first he hid for breakfast on the morrow,
Then stretched him out in perfect tiger-bliss.
Your feelings, for your flesh might creep at this—
Them first he hid for breakfast on the morrow,
Then stretched him out in perfect tiger-bliss.
And as he slept, he dreamed—I do not wonder,
Sure such a meal would set one dreaming fast—
He dreamed another Buddha had fallen under
His fangs, to be devoured too like the last.
Sure such a meal would set one dreaming fast—
He dreamed another Buddha had fallen under
His fangs, to be devoured too like the last.
He dreamed of crunching bones to reach the marrow,
Of his head buried in the softer part,
Of spurting blood that shot forth like an arrow,
And of some dainty morsels near the heart.
Of his head buried in the softer part,
Of spurting blood that shot forth like an arrow,
And of some dainty morsels near the heart.
A horrid dream for one who had been grafted
With a meek nature meant to sweeten him;
But he had tasted blood, and now he quaffed it,
At pleasure, in a dream-world wild and grim.
With a meek nature meant to sweeten him;
But he had tasted blood, and now he quaffed it,
At pleasure, in a dream-world wild and grim.
And on the morrow, not to waste his treasure,
He raked it up, and had another feast,
And then another dream, so doubling pleasure,
As if he were a mere cud-chewing beast.
He raked it up, and had another feast,
And then another dream, so doubling pleasure,
As if he were a mere cud-chewing beast.
No thought had he of growing soft and tender,
Of sparing women going to the well,
Or being the poor traveller's defender
From other cats that in the jungle dwell.
Of sparing women going to the well,
Or being the poor traveller's defender
From other cats that in the jungle dwell.
547
He had no touch of Buddha's gentle spirit,
Nor any taste of chivalry at all;
That ghastly murder seemed a deed of merit,
To be repeated, nowise to appal.
Nor any taste of chivalry at all;
That ghastly murder seemed a deed of merit,
To be repeated, nowise to appal.
The brute, no doubt, was hopelessly ferocious,
To eat a Buddha full of love and ruth,
And only feel how much the deed atrocious
Had reinforced the fierceness of his youth.
To eat a Buddha full of love and ruth,
And only feel how much the deed atrocious
Had reinforced the fierceness of his youth.
So did I picture, as my fancy willed it,
The good man and his fruitless sacrifice—
The blood he wasted, and the brute that spilled it,
Having no thought of virtue or of vice:
The good man and his fruitless sacrifice—
The blood he wasted, and the brute that spilled it,
Having no thought of virtue or of vice:
Having no wit, but just to stanch his hunger
With juicy meat that pleased his unspoilt taste,
And gave him pleasant sleep and made him stronger
To hunt for prey about the jungle waste.
With juicy meat that pleased his unspoilt taste,
And gave him pleasant sleep and made him stronger
To hunt for prey about the jungle waste.
That was the touch too much—that tiger story—
Which makes a caricature ridiculous,
Rubbing the tinsel pathos off and glory,
To tickle mirthful humour born in us.
Which makes a caricature ridiculous,
Rubbing the tinsel pathos off and glory,
To tickle mirthful humour born in us.
Were one an owl upon the high barn rafter
Staring in serious gravity, or Nun
That had forsworn the wanton trick of laughter—
Then one might read, and fail to see the fun.
Staring in serious gravity, or Nun
That had forsworn the wanton trick of laughter—
Then one might read, and fail to see the fun.
But though I would behold with reverence fitting
What sacred is to any soul on earth,
Yet this mad fooling of a mind, unwitting
The humour of it, wakens mocking mirth.
What sacred is to any soul on earth,
Yet this mad fooling of a mind, unwitting
The humour of it, wakens mocking mirth.
Moral-sublime! nay, but the brain-sick dreaming
Of mind diseased, which we could pity, indeed,
Were we not challenged to admire the seeming
Virtue that propped up a fantastic creed.
Of mind diseased, which we could pity, indeed,
Were we not challenged to admire the seeming
Virtue that propped up a fantastic creed.
And yet, perchance, like other tales that wander
Down through the ages, this too has been changed;
Buddha may ne'er have thought his life to squander
On the fierce brute that through the jungle ranged.
Down through the ages, this too has been changed;
Buddha may ne'er have thought his life to squander
On the fierce brute that through the jungle ranged.
But some poor scribbler, fain to exalt his merit,
Some plodding dullard, guiltless of a jest,
Thus fondly hoped to show the Master's spirit,
And only his own folly well expressed.
Some plodding dullard, guiltless of a jest,
Thus fondly hoped to show the Master's spirit,
And only his own folly well expressed.
So are the great and good ill understanded,
What time their Faith a dead tradition grown,
And on the doctors and the schoolmen stranded,
Breaks up, a wreck upon the sand and stone.
What time their Faith a dead tradition grown,
And on the doctors and the schoolmen stranded,
Breaks up, a wreck upon the sand and stone.
They were not fools, those men, who earth's distractions
Left for an aim that still our spirit stirs:
Enough, to answer, only for their actions,
Not for the stories of biographers.
Left for an aim that still our spirit stirs:
Enough, to answer, only for their actions,
Not for the stories of biographers.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |