The Dawn and the Day Part 3

The trumpets sound, and now the games begin.

But see the scornful curl of Culture's lip At such low sports! Dyspeptic preachers hear Harangue the sleepers on their sinfulness!

Hear grave philosophers, so limp and frail They scarce can walk G.o.d's earth to breathe his air, Talk of the waste of time! Short-sighted men!

G.o.d made the body just to fit the mind, Each part exact, no scrimping and no waste-- Neglect the body and you cramp the soul.

First brawny wrestlers, shining from the bath, Wary and watchful, quick with arm and eye, After long play clinch close, arms twined, knees locked, Each nerve and muscle strained, and stand as still As if a bronze from Vulcan's fabled shop, Or else by power of magic changed to stone In that supremest moment, when a breath Or feather's weight would tip the balanced scale; And when they fall the shouts from hill to hill Sound like the voices of the mighty deep, As wave on wave breaks on the rock-bound sh.o.r.e.

Then boxers, eye to eye and foot to foot, One arm at guard, the other raised to strike.

The hurlers of the quoit next stand in line, Measure the distance with experienced eye, Adjust the rings, swing them with growing speed, Until at length on very tiptoe poised, Like Mercury just lighted on the earth, With mighty force they whirl them through the air.

And then the spearmen, having for a mark A lion rampant, standing as in life, So distant that it seemed but half life-size, Each vital part marked with a little ring.

And when the spears were hurled, six trembling stood Fixed in the beast, piercing each vital part, Leaving the victory in even scale.

For these was set far off a lesser mark, Until at length by chance, not lack of skill, The victory so long in doubt was won.

And then again the people wildly shout, The prince victor and n.o.bly vanquished praised.

Next runners, lithe and light, glide round the plain, Whose flying feet like Mercury's seemed winged, Their chests expanded, and their swinging arms Like oars to guide and speed their rapid course; And as they pa.s.sed along the people cheered Each well-known master of the manly art.

Then archers, with broad chests and brawny arms Such as the blacksmith's heavy hammer wields With quick, hard blows that make the anvil ring And myriad sparks from the hot iron fly; A golden eagle on a screen their mark, So distant that it seemed a sparrow's size-- "For," said the prince, "let not this joyful day Give anguish to the smallest living thing."

They strain their bows until their muscles seem Like knotted cords, the twelve strings tw.a.n.g at once, And the ground trembles as at the swelling tones Of mighty organs or the thunder's roll.

Two arrows pierce the eagle, while the rest All pierce the screen. A second mark was set, When lo! high up in air two lines of swans, Having one leader, seek their northern nests, Their white plumes shining in the noonday sun, Calling each other in soft mellow notes.

Instant one of the people cries "A mark!"

Whereat the thousands shout "A mark! a mark!"

One of the archers chose the leader, one the last.

Their arrows fly. The last swan left its mates As if sore wounded, while the first came down Like a great eagle swooping for its prey, And fell before the prince, its strong wing pierced, Its bright plumes darkened by its crimson blood.

Whereat the people shout, and shout again, Until the hills repeat the mighty sound.

The prince gently but sadly raised the bird, Stroked tenderly its plumes, calmed its wild fear, And gave to one to care for and to cure.

And now the people for the chariot-race Grow eager, while beneath the royal stand, By folding doors hid from the public view, The steeds, harnessed and ready, champ their bits And paw the ground, impatient for the start.

The charioteers alert, with one strong hand Hold high the reins, the other holds the lash.

Timour--a name that since has filled the world, A Tartar chief, whose sons long after swept As with destruction's broom fair India's plains-- With northern jargon calmed his eager steeds; Azim, from Cashmere's rugged lovely vale, His prancing Babylonians firmly held; Channa, from Ganges' broad and sacred stream, With bit and word checked his Nisaean three; While Devadatta, cousin to the prince, Soothed his impatient Arabs with such terms As fondest mothers to their children use; "Atair, my pet! Mira, my baby, hush!

Regil, my darling child, be still! be still!"

With necks high arched, nostrils distended wide, And eager gaze, they stood as those that saw Some distant object in their desert home.

At length the gates open as of themselves, When at the trumpet's sound the steeds dash forth As by one spirit moved, under tight rein, And neck and neck they thunder down the plain, While rising dust-clouds chase the flying wheels.

But weight, not lack of nerve or spirit, tells; Azim and Channa urge their steeds in vain, By Tartar and light Arab left behind As the light galley leaves the man-of-war; They sweat and labor ere a mile is gained, While their light rivals pa.s.s the royal stand Fresh as at first, just warming to the race.

And now the real race at length begins, A double race, such as the Romans loved.

Horses so matched in weight and strength and speed, Drivers so matched in skill that as they pa.s.s Azim and Channa seemed a single man.

Timour and Devadatta, side by side, Wheel almost touching wheel, dash far ahead.

Azim and Channa, left so far behind, No longer urge a race already lost.

The Babylonian and Nisaean steeds, No longer pressed so far beyond their power, With long and even strides sweep smoothly on, Striking the earth as with a single blow, Their hot breath rising in a single cloud.

Arab and Tartar with a longer stride And lighter stroke skim lightly o'er the ground.

Watching the horses with a master's eye, As Devadatta and Timour four times, Azim and Channa thrice, swept by the stand, The prince saw that another round would test, Not overtax, their powers, and gave the sign, When three loud trumpet-blasts to all proclaimed That running one more round would end the race.

These ringing trumpet-calls that brought defeat Or victory so near, startle and rouse.

The charioteers more ardent urge their steeds; The steeds are with hot emulation fired; The social mult.i.tude now cease to talk-- Even age stops short in stories often told; Boys, downy-chinned, in rough-and-tumble sports Like half-grown bears engaged, turn quick and look; And blooming girls, with merry ringing laugh, Romping in gentler games, watching meanwhile With sly and sidelong look the rougher sports, Turn eagerly to see the scene below; While mothers for the time forget their babes, And lovers who had sought out quiet nooks To tell the tale that all the past has told And coming times will tell, stand mute and gaze.

The home-stretch soon is reached, and Channa's three By word and lash urged to their topmost speed, The foaming Babylonians left behind, While Devadatta and Timour draw near, A whole round gained, Timour a length ahead.

But Devadatta loosens now his reins, Chides his fleet pets, with lash swung high in air Wounds their proud spirits, not their tender flesh.

With lion-bounds they pa.s.s the Tartar steeds, That with hot rival rage and open mouths, And flaming eyes, and fierce and angry cries, Dash full at Regil's side, but dash in vain.

Fear adding speed, the Arabs sweep ahead.

Meanwhile the prince springs forward from his seat, And all on tiptoe still and eager stand, So that the rumbling of the chariot-wheels, The tramp of flying feet and drivers' cries, Alone the universal stillness break-- As when before the bursting of some fearful storm, Birds, beasts and men stand mute with trembling awe, While heaven's artillery and roaring winds Are in the awful silence only heard.

But when the double victory is gained, Drums, sh.e.l.ls and trumpets mingle with the shouts From hill to hill re-echoed and renewed-- As when, after the morning's threatening bow, Dark, lurid, whirling clouds obscure the day, And forked lightnings dart athwart the sky, And angry winds roll up the boiling sea, And thunder, raging winds and warring waves Join in one mighty and earth shaking roar.

Thus end the games, and the procession forms, The king and elders first, contestants next, And last the prince; each victor laurel-crowned, And after each his prize, while all were given Some choice memorial of the happy day-- Cinctures to all athletes to gird the loins And falling just below the knee, the belt Of stoutest leather, joined with silver clasps, The skirt of softest wool or finest silk, Adorned with needlework and decked with gems, Such as the modest Aryans always wore In games intended for the public view, Before the Greeks became degenerate, And savage Rome compelled those n.o.ble men Whose only crime was love of liberty, By discipline and numbers overwhelmed, Bravely defending children, wife and home, Naked to fight each other or wild beasts, And called this brutal savagery high sport For them and for their proud degenerate dames, Of whom few were what Caesar's wife should be.

The athletes' prizes all were rich and rare, Some costly emblem of their several arts.

The archers' prizes all were bows; the first Made from the horns of a great mountain-goat That long had ranged the Himalayan heights, Till some bold hunter climbed his giddy cliffs And brought his unsuspecting victim down.

His lofty horns the bowsmith root to root Had firmly joined, and polished, bright, And tipped with finest gold, and made a bow Worthy of Sinhahamu's[1] mighty arm.

The other prizes, bows of lesser strength But better suited to their weaker arms.

A chariot, the charioteers' first prize,[2]

Its slender hubs made strong with brazen bands, The spokes of whitest ivory polished bright, The fellies ebony, with tires of bronze, Each axle's end a brazen tiger's head, The body woven of slender bamboo shoots Intwined with silver wire and decked with gold.

A mare and colt of the victorious breed The second prize, more worth in Timour's eyes.

Than forty chariots, though each were made Of ebony or ivory or gold, And all the laurel India ever grew.

The third, a tunic of soft Cashmere wool, On which, by skillful needles deftly wrought, The race itself as if in life stood forth.

The fourth, a belt to gird the laggard's loins And whip to stimulate his laggard steeds.

And thus arrayed they moved once round the course, Then to the palace, as a fitter place For beauty's contest than the open plain; The singers chanting a triumphal hymn, While many instruments, deep toned and shrill, And all the mult.i.tude, the chorus swell.

This day his mission ceased to press the prince, And he forgot the sorrows of the world, So deep and earnest seemed the general joy.

Even those with grinning skeletons at home In secret closets locked from public view, And care and sorrow rankling at their hearts, Joined in the general laugh and swelled the shouts, And seemed full happy though they only seemed.

But through the games, while all was noisy mirth, He felt a new, strange feeling at his heart, And ever and anon he stole a glance At beauty's rose-embowered hiding-place, To catch a glimpse of those two laughing eyes, So penetrating yet so soft and mild.

And at the royal banquet spread for all It chanced Yasodhara sat next the prince-- An accident by older heads designed-- And the few words that such constraint allowed Were music to his ears and touched his heart; And when her eyes met his her rosy blush Told what her maiden modesty would hide.

And at the dance, when her soft hands touched his The music seemed to quicken, time to speed; But when she bowed and pa.s.sed to other hands, Winding the mystic measure of the dance,[3]

The music seemed to slacken, time to halt, Or drag his limping moments lingering on.

At length, after the dance, the beauties pa.s.sed Before the prince, and each received her prize.

So rich and rare that each thought hers the first, A treasure to be kept and shown with pride, And handed down to children yet unborn.

But when Yasodhara before him stood, The prizes all were gone; but from his neck He took a golden chain thick set with gems, And clasped it round her slender waist, and said: "Take this, and keep it for the giver's sake."

And from the prince they pa.s.sed before the king.

The proud and stately he would greet with grace, The timid cheer with kind and gracious words.

But when Yasodhara bowed low and pa.s.sed, He started, and his color went and came As if oppressed with sudden inward pain.

Asita, oldest of his counselors, Sprang to his side and asked: "What ails the king?"

"Nothing, my friend, nothing," the king replied, "But the sharp probing of an ancient wound.

You know how my sweet queen was loved of all-- But how her life was woven into mine, Filling my inmost soul, none e'er can know.

My bitter anguish words can never tell, As that sweet life was gently breathed away.

Time only strengthens this enduring love, And she seems nearer me as I grow old.

Often in stillest night's most silent hour, When the sly nibbling of a timid mouse In the deep stillness sounds almost as loud As builders' hammers in the busy day, My Maya as in life stands by my side.

A halo round her head, as she would say: 'A little while, and you shall have your own.'

Often in deepest sleep she seems to steal Into that inmost chamber of my soul Vacant for her, and nestle to my heart, Breathing a peace my waking hours know not.

And when I wake, and turn to clasp my love My sinking heart finds but her vacant place.

Since that sad day that stole her from my arms I've seen a generation of sweet girls Grow up to womanhood, but none like her!

Hut that bright vision that just flitted by Seemed so like her it made me cringe and start.

O dear Asita, little worth is life, With all its tears and partings, woes and pains, If when its short and fitful fever ends There is no after-life, where death and pain, And sundered ties, and crushed and bleeding hearts, And sad and last farewells are never known."

Such was the old and such the new-born love; The new quick bursting into sudden flame, Warming the soul to active consciousness That man alone is but a severed part Of one full, rounded, perfect, living whole; The old a steady but undying flame, A living longing for the loved and lost; But each a real hunger of the soul For what gave paradise its highest bliss, And what in this poor fallen world of ours Gives glimpses of its high and happy life.

O love! how beautiful! how pure! how sweet!

Life of the angels that surround G.o.d's throne!