Atmâ
Page 18
CHAPTER XVIII.
Far retired in the woody recesses to the south of Jummoo, thither comeby a winding labyrinth of ways were the fugitives. Bertram, languid andpale, lay on a couch of moss and leaves built by his friend. His gazerested on Atma with compassion, for he knew that his wound was of thespirit, and he feared that without a balm the sore must be mortal. Thesoul dies sometimes before we say of the man "he is dead," and at thatstrange death we shudder lest it should know no awakening.
Atma sat near by, dumb and unheeding. His fingers toyed idly with aPearl, on which he gazed as if seeing other forms than those about him.For many hours he was silent, rising at times to proffer food and waterto the wounded man, but oblivious of his own needs, and onlyhalf-conscious that he was not alone. Daylight faded and stars came outbefore he spoke, addressing none and looking away into silence:--
"O swift-winged Time, Bearing to what unknown estate, What silent clime, The burden of our hopes and fears, The story of our smiles and tears, And hapless fate?
Those vanished days, Their golden light can none restore; Those sovereign rays That set o'er western seas to-night, This tranquil moon that shines so bright, Have paled before Returning in their time, but, oh! The golden light of long ago Returns no more.
This little Pearl, Of water born, shall year by year Imprison in its tiny sphere Those fleeting tints whose mystic strife And shadowy whirl Of colour seem a form of life; Nor ever shall their sea-born home Dissolve in foam; But this frail build of love and trust Will sink to dust."
The magnitude of his calamity had dulled the sharpness of each stroke,and thus it was not of loss of love, faith and fortune that he spoke,but of the frailty of life. This is our habit. A ship too richlyfreighted goes down, and straightway the owner laments, not his owndeprivation, but that "all flesh is grass." "Vanity of vanities," hecries, "all is vanity," and we but guess at his hurt. A mysteriousconsciousness is wiser than his reason, and connects the broken currentof his life with a mighty movement which he knows afar, but cannot tellwhether it be of Time or Eternity. He who designed all, "did not He makeone?"
Our days are empty, how should they be otherwise in a world whose veryvanity is infinite?
"Imperial Sorrow loves her sway, or I had sooner broken your vigil, mybrother," said Bertram. "I perceive that the falsity of life appals yourspirit. It is true that the faint lustre of that tiny orb will longsurvive these poor frames of ours; it is a fitting emblem of thedeathless tenant within."
But to Atma it was the symbol of a lost love. He looked on itlistlessly. It seemed a long while since Moti died, for in his heartjoy, and hope, and youth had died since. The immortal destiny of man, abelief dear to the Sikh, seemed a thing indifferent. Death might not befinal, but it was yesterday he mourned, and of it he said: "it is past."
He knew of the soul's Immortality, but of the Continuity of Life he hadnot heard,
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Dear Life, cling close, true friend, thro' well or ill, Mine aye, we cannot part our company. Though breathing cease and busy heart be still, Together will we wake eternally.
Strange Life, in whose immeasurable clasp, The past, the present and the vast to be Mingle,--O Time, the world is for thy grasp, I and my life for immortality.
Those bygone hours that were too bright to stay, And vanished from my sight like morning mist, Will dawn again, and, ne'er to fade away, The fleeting moments endlessly exist.
The present lives, the past and future twine; My life, my days forevermore endure. My life--it comes I know not whence, but mine For aye 'twill be, indissolubly sure.
* * * * *
When the night drew on, Atma went away. In thought Bertram followed him,full of sad solicitude.
He strode along the heights. The cooling air and the sense of isolationwere grateful to his worn spirit. He wandered far until he found himselfin a rocky fortress, vast, black and terrible. The lowering peaks aboveinclined their giant heads to one another in awful conclave, and theghastly moonbeams pierced to the gloom below, where they enwrapped thelonely form of Atma in a phosphorescent glare. The winds broke among thecliffs, and with shrieks and fearful laughter proclaimed the darkcouncils of the peaks, and in the din were heard mutterings andimprecations. A transport seized the soul of Atma. The horrible glee ofthe night awoke wrath, and he hurled defiance to the mocking winds.
"What! are th' infernal powers moved for me, That all the hosts of hell me welcome give, And claim me comrade in their revelry? Abhorrent things, I am not yours, I live, I know I live because I think on death! I live, dead things, to revel among tombs, A ghoul, henceforth I feast on buried joys, My soul the burial-place, where lie, beneath A fearful night of cries and hellish spumes, My lovely youth with jovial convoys, Hopes, happy-eyed, and linked solaces, And in the lapse of hateful years they will-- My guileless joys, my rose-hued memories-- Corrupt and rot and turn to venomed ill.
O cherished dreams of Truth! O sacred bond Unlovely grown! O faith so mutable! Shades of my fathers, not august but fond! How hollow were the darlings of my dream! But she, O Lotus-flower, my promised bride, Star of my youth, my pure unspotted dove! Again I see her in her gentle pride, Her starry eyes meet mine with melting beam; Unsightly grief approach not near my Love, Flee from her presence, O thou gaunt Despair, Good Time, embalm her daintily and fair, Link her sweet fame with hymns and fragrancy. And happy stars, and blissful utterance, And with all transports that immortal be. Fold her, good Time, from my remembrance, O, this is bitterest mortality, That living heart of love should be the urn Where lie the ashes of our joys that turn To bitterness, and all our lives o'erflow Till dearest love be grown a hateful woe; My sun of youth has set, methinks it should Have set with such a splendour as had all My sober days with mellow light imbued; O bitter sun of youth whose knavish pledge Of high-born hope and holy privilege But led me undefended to my fall, O lamentable day when I was born! What shapes are those that mock me with their scorn? What trumpet-call is this within my breast? I am grown wise, my senses are increased, It is the breath of fiends that drowns my speech, The bellowing of devils as they feast. I am the taunt of devils, and they preach Of death, of cursing, and of endless woe; The lightnings of this devil-tempest show Horrors not dreamed of
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O thou Vengeful Power, I am forspent, if merit there can be In self accusing, in this darkest hour O hear me, and I pray thee pity me, For I have sinned, O fool, unwise and blind! And I am Atma; whom thou hadst designed For life of sanctity and holy quest. Lord, I am Atma, and I have transgressed; I sought the Present whom we may not seek, The Future whom I slighted went before And waited armed and my goods did take. This is my sin that sent on high behest I slept; Lord, as one waited at thy golden door A hundred years, and snatched a little rest, And waked to see the closing gateway drawn And lived thereafter only in the dawn Of that brief moment's light, so also I Must dream of wasted radiance till I die."