Indian Antiquary Vol 05

SR No.: 032497
Original Sutra Author: N/A
Author: Jas Burgess
Publisher: Swati Publications
Publication Year: 1984
Total Pages: 438
Language: English
Classification: Book_English
File Size: 20 MB

Page 84

66
THE INDIAN ANTIQUARY.
[MARCH, 1876
When shall we, sick of life's entangling bands, Sit on the holy river's moonlit sands, Through windless nights, with rapture-stream
ing eyes, And thrice on Siva call with plaintive cries ?
Still Siva's arm is strong to save, Still may we plunge in Ganga's wave, Still one blue heaven bends over all, Still Time sees mortals rise and fall, Still poverty's our best defence, Enough-renounce the joys of sense.
Unfettered wandering, and meals from degrada
tion free, The friendship of the wise and good ; and sober
piety, A heart that beats not for the world-none, that
my thoughts can trace, Not e'en by strictest discipline hath gained this
heavenly grace.
The hand's a lordly dish, The mouth with alms is fed, The sky's a glorious robe, The earth's a sumptuous bed, Those live in high content Who're free from passion's chain, And works with all their brood Of ignorance and pain.
Hope is a stream, its waves desires, by stormy
passions tossed, With cruel longings lurking deep, by light
winged visions crossed, Resolves like firmly planted trees its floods up
rooting bear, Its madness swirls in eddying rings beneath its
banks of care ; But those, who in devotion's bark attain its
further shore, Rejoice, for this unstable world enslaves their
souls no more.
Kings' fancies swiftly pass like coursers in the
race,
In vain to them we look for favour, wealth, and
place, Eld robs our frame of strength, Death slays us at El
a blow, None but the hermit's life can happiness be
stow.
I've searched for years through earth and air
and sky, Nor yet one perfect saint hath met my eye, Nor have I heard of one who could restrain Desire's fierce elephant with reason's chain.
Our joys are short-lived as the flash
That cleaves the cloudy veil, Our life is fleeting as the mists
That drive before the gale; Yonth's pleasures fade-then fix your minds
On that untroubled peace Which patient meditation brings
To those whose longings cease.
The days seem long to those who drudge for
pay, And short to those who fritter life away; When shall I sit and think how vain their
moans, A hermit pillowed on a bed of stones ? When all our wealth is wasted, we'll seek some
is wasted, we'll seek some calm retreat, And spend the night in thinking on Śiva's
holy feet, When streams the autumn moonlight into our
melting hearts, How false that world will glimmer where once
we played our parts ! Bark garments satisfy my needs, But you are pleased with silken weeds,
Who counts you better off than me? But woe to him whose wants are great! Contentment equals men's estate,
And makes the rich and poor agree.
To roam some woodland hermitage where Brah
maņs' chants resound, And smoke of sacrificial fires blackens the trees
around, Begging one's bread from cell to coll, plants in
the breast no thorns, Like flattering men of equal birth whose sym
pathy one socrns.
While gaping idlers turn the head and say,
“What stamp of man can yonder pilgrim be, "Saint, sophist, outcast, Brâhman, slave or
free?" Nor pleased nor wroth the hermit wends his way.