Complete Works. Rabindranath Tagore

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СКАЧАТЬ in their beds shall toss and groan in dire dreams.

      For to-night thy trumpet shall be sounded.

      From thee I have asked peace only to find shame.

      Now I stand before thee—help me to put on my armour!

      Let hard blows of trouble strike fire into my life.

      Let my heart beat in pain, the drum of thy victory.

      My hands shall be utterly emptied to take up thy trumpet.

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      When, mad in their mirth, they raised dust to soil thy robe, O

       Beautiful, it made my heart sick.

      I cried to thee and said, "Take thy rod of punishment and judge them."

      The morning light struck upon those eyes, red with the revel of night; the place of the white lily greeted their burning breath; the stars through the depth of the sacred dark stared at their carousing—at those that raised dust to soil thy robe, O Beautiful!

      Thy judgment seat was in the flower garden, in the birds' notes in springtime: in the shady river-banks, where the trees muttered in answer to the muttering of the waves.

      O my Lover, they were pitiless in their passion.

      They prowled in the dark to snatch thy ornaments to deck their own desires.

      When they had struck thee and thou wert pained, it pierced me to the quick, and I cried to thee and said, "Take thy sword, O my Lover, and judge them!"

      Ah, but thy justice was vigilant.

      A mother's tears were shed on their insolence; the imperishable faith of a lover hid their spears of rebellion in its own wounds.

      Thy judgment was in the mute pain of sleepless love: in the blush of the chaste: in the tears of the night of the desolate: in the pale morning-light of forgiveness.

      O Terrible, they in their reckless greed climbed thy gate at night, breaking into thy storehouse to rob thee.

      But the weight of their plunder grew immense, too heavy to carry or to remove.

      Thereupon I cried to thee and said, Forgive them, O Terrible!

      Thy forgiveness burst in storms, throwing them down, scattering their thefts in the dust.

      Thy forgiveness was in the thunder-stone; in the shower of blood; in the angry red of the sunset.

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      Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay asleep on the dust by the city wall of Mathura.

      Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and stars were all hidden by the murky sky of August.

      Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast of a sudden?

      He woke up startled, and the light from a woman's lamp struck his forgiving eyes.

      It was the dancing girl, starred with jewels, clouded with a pale-blue mantle, drunk with the wine of her youth.

      She lowered her lamp and saw the young face, austerely beautiful.

      "Forgive me, young ascetic," said the woman; "graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed for you."

      The ascetic answered, "Woman, go on your way; when the time is ripe I will come to you."

      Suddenly the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightning.

      The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman trembled in fear.

      ……

      The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossom.

      Gay notes of the flute came floating in the warm spring air from afar.

      The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of flowers.

      From the mid-sky gazed the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.

      The young ascetic was walking in the lonely street, while overhead the lovesick koels urged from the mango branches their sleepless plaint.

      Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the rampart.

      What woman lay in the shadow of the wall at his feet, struck with the black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, hurriedly driven away from the town?

      The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.

      "Who are you, merciful one?" asked the woman.

      "The time, at last, has come to visit you, and I am here," replied the young ascetic.

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      This is no mere dallying of love between us, my lover.

      Again and again have swooped down upon me the screaming nights of storm, blowing out my lamp: dark doubts have gathered, blotting out all stars from my sky.

      Again and again the banks have burst, letting the flood sweep away my harvest, and wailing and despair have rent my sky from end to end.

      This have I learnt that there are blows of pain in your love, never the cold apathy of death.

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      The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter, bursts in.

       Victory, O Light!

      The heart of the night is pierced!

      With your flashing sword cut in twain the tangle of doubt and feeble desires!

      Victory!

      Come, Implacable!

      Come, you who are terrible in your whiteness.

      O Light, your drum sounds in the march of fire, and the red torch is held on high; death dies in a burst of splendour!

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