The Song celestial; or, Bhagabad-gîtâ (from the Mahâbhârata) being a discourse between Arjuna, prince of India, and the Supreme Being under the form of Krishna

CHAPTER IV

Kr­ish­na. This death­less Yo­ga, this deep union, I taught Vi­vaswa­ta,[FN#6] the Lord of Light; Vi­vaswa­ta to Manu gave it; he To Iksh­waku; so passed it down the line Of all my roy­al Rishis. Then, with years, The truth grew dim and per­ished, no­ble Prince! Now once again to thee it is de­clared– This an­cient lore, this mys­tery supreme– See­ing I find thee votary and friend.

Ar­ju­na. Thy birth, dear Lord, was in these lat­er days, And bright Vi­vaswa­ta’s pre­ced­ed time! How shall I com­pre­hend this thing thou sayest, “From the be­gin­ning it was I who taught?”

Kr­ish­na. Man­ifold the re­newals of my birth Have been, Ar­ju­na! and of thy births, too! But mine I know, and thine thou know­est not, O Slay­er of thy Foes! Al­beit I be Un­born, undy­ing, in­de­struc­tible, The Lord of all things liv­ing; not the less– By Maya, by my mag­ic which I stamp On float­ing Na­ture-​forms, the pri­mal vast– I come, and go, and come. When Righ­teous­ness De­clines, O Bhara­ta! when Wicked­ness Is strong, I rise, from age to age, and take Vis­ible shape, and move a man with men, Suc­cour­ing the good, thrust­ing the evil back, And set­ting Virtue on her seat again. Who knows the truth touch­ing my births on earth And my di­vine work, when he quits the flesh Puts on its load no more, falls no more down To earth­ly birth: to Me he comes, dear Prince! Many there be who come! from fear set free, From anger, from de­sire; keep­ing their hearts Fixed up­on me–my Faith­ful–pu­ri­fied By sa­cred flame of Knowl­edge. Such as these Mix with my be­ing. Whoso wor­ship me, Them I ex­alt; but all men ev­ery­where Shall fall in­to my path; al­beit, those souls Which seek re­ward for works, make sac­ri­fice Now, to the low­er gods. I say to thee Here have they their re­ward. But I am He Made the Four Castes, and por­tioned them a place Af­ter their qual­ities and gifts. Yea, I Cre­at­ed, the Re­pose­ful; I that live Im­mor­tal­ly, made all those mor­tal births: For works soil not my essence, be­ing works Wrought un­in­volved.[FN#7] Who knows me act­ing thus Un­chained by ac­tion, ac­tion binds not him; And, so per­ceiv­ing, all those saints of old Worked, seek­ing for de­liv­er­ance. Work thou As, in the days gone by, thy fa­thers did.

Thou sayst, per­plexed, It hath been asked be­fore By singers and by sages, “What is act, And what in­ac­tion? “I will teach thee this, And, know­ing, thou shalt learn which work doth save Needs must one right­ly med­itate those three– Do­ing,–not do­ing,–and un­do­ing. Here Thorny and dark the path is! He who sees How ac­tion may be rest, rest ac­tion–he Is wis­est ‘mid his kind; he hath the truth! He doeth well, act­ing or rest­ing. Freed In all his works from prick­ings of de­sire, Burned clean in act by the white fire of truth, The wise call that man wise; and such an one, Re­nounc­ing fruit of deeds, al­ways con­tent. Al­ways self-​sat­is­fy­ing, if he works, Doth noth­ing that shall stain his sep­arate soul, Which–quit of fear and hope–sub­du­ing self– Re­ject­ing out­ward im­pulse–yield­ing up To body’s need noth­ing save body, dwells Sin­less amid all sin, with equal calm Tak­ing what may be­fall, by grief un­moved, Un­moved by joy, un­en­vy­ing­ly; the same In good and evil for­tunes; no­wise bound By bond of deeds. Nay, but of such an one, Whose crave is gone, whose soul is lib­er­ate, Whose heart is set on truth–of such an one What work he does is work of sac­ri­fice, Which pas­seth pure­ly in­to ash and smoke Con­sumed up­on the al­tar! All’s then God! The sac­ri­fice is Brahm, the ghee and grain Are Brahm, the fire is Brahm, the flesh it eats Is Brahm, and un­to Brahm at­taineth he Who, in such of­fice, med­itates on Brahm. Some votaries there be who serve the gods With flesh and al­tar-​smoke; but oth­er some Who, light­ing sub­tler fires, make pur­er rite With will of wor­ship. Of the which be they Who, in white flame of con­ti­nence, con­sume Joys of the sense, de­lights of eye and ear, For­go­ing ten­der speech and sound of song: And they who, kin­dling fires with torch of Truth, Burn on a hid­den al­tar-​stone the bliss Of youth and love, re­nounc­ing hap­pi­ness: And they who lay for of­fer­ing there their wealth, Their penance, med­ita­tion, piety, Their stead­fast read­ing of the scrolls, their lore Painful­ly gained with long aus­ter­ities: And they who, mak­ing silent sac­ri­fice, Draw in their breath to feed the flame of thought, And breathe it forth to waft the heart on high, Gov­ern­ing the ven­tage of each en­ter­ing air Lest one sigh pass which helpeth not the soul: And they who, day by day deny­ing needs, Lay life it­self up­on the al­tar-​flame, Burn­ing the body wan. Lo! all these keep The rite of of­fer­ing, as if they slew Vic­tims; and all there­by ef­face much sin. Yea! and who feed on the im­mor­tal food Left of such sac­ri­fice, to Brah­ma pass, To The Un­end­ing. But for him that makes No sac­ri­fice, he hath nor part nor lot Even in the present world. How should he share An­oth­er, O thou Glo­ry of thy Line?

In sight of Brah­ma all these of­fer­ings Are spread and are ac­cept­ed! Com­pre­hend That all pro­ceed by act; for know­ing this, Thou shalt be quit of doubt. The sac­ri­fice Which Knowl­edge pays is bet­ter than great gifts Of­fered by wealth, since gifts’ worth–O my Prince! Lies in the mind which gives, the will that serves: And these are gained by rev­er­ence, by strong search, By hum­ble heed of those who see the Truth And teach it. Know­ing Truth, thy heart no more Will ache with er­ror, for the Truth shall show All things sub­dued to thee, as thou to Me. More­over, Son of Pan­du! wert thou worst Of all wrong-​do­ers, this fair ship of Truth Should bear thee safe and dry across the sea Of thy trans­gres­sions. As the kin­dled flame Feeds on the fu­el till it sinks to ash, So un­to ash, Ar­ju­na! un­to nought The flame of Knowl­edge wastes works’ dross away! There is no pu­ri­fi­er like there­to In all this world, and he who seeketh it Shall find it–be­ing grown per­fect–in him­self. Be­liev­ing, he re­ceives it when the soul Mas­ters it­self, and cleaves to Truth, and comes– Pos­sess­ing knowl­edge–to the high­er peace, The ut­ter­most re­pose. But those un­taught, And those with­out full faith, and those who fear Are shent; no peace is here or oth­er where, No hope, nor hap­pi­ness for whoso doubts. He that, be­ing self-​con­tained, hath van­quished doubt, Dis­part­ing self from ser­vice, soul from works, En­light­ened and eman­ci­pate, my Prince! Works fet­ter him no more! Cut then at­wain With sword of wis­dom, Son of Bhara­ta! This doubt that binds thy heart-​beats! cleave the bond Born of thy ig­no­rance! Be bold and wise! Give thy­self to the field with me! Arise!

HERE EN­DETH CHAP­TER IV. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Jnana Yog,” Or “The Book of the Re­li­gion of Knowl­edge,”

CHAP­TER V Ar­ju­na. Yet, Kr­ish­na! at the one time thou dost laud Surcease of works, and, at an­oth­er time, Ser­vice through work. Of these twain plain­ly tell Which is the bet­ter way?

Kr­ish­na. To cease from works Is well, and to do works in ho­li­ness Is well; and both con­duct to bliss supreme; But of these twain the bet­ter way is his Who work­ing pi­ous­ly re­fraineth not.

That is the true Re­nounc­er, firm and fixed, Who–seek­ing nought, re­ject­ing nought–dwells proof Against the “op­po­sites.”[FN#8] O valiant Prince! In do­ing, such breaks light­ly from all deed: ‘Tis the new schol­ar talks as they were two, This Sankhya and this Yo­ga: wise men know Who hus­bands one plucks gold­en fruit of both! The re­gion of high rest which Sankhyans reach Yo­gins at­tain. Who sees these twain as one Sees with clear eyes! Yet such ab­strac­tion, Chief! Is hard to win with­out much ho­li­ness. Whoso is fixed in ho­li­ness, self-​ruled, Pure-​heart­ed, lord of sens­es and of self, Lost in the com­mon life of all which lives– A “Yo­gayukt”–he is a Saint who wends Straight­way to Brahm. Such an one is not touched By taint of deeds. “Nought of my­self I do!” Thus will he think-​who holds the truth of truths– In see­ing, hear­ing, touch­ing, smelling; when He eats, or goes, or breathes; slum­bers or talks, Holds fast or loosens, opes his eyes or shuts; Al­ways as­sured “This is the sense-​world plays With sens­es.”He that acts in thought of Brahm, De­tach­ing end from act, with act con­tent, The world of sense can no more stain his soul Than wa­ters mar th’ enam­elled lo­tus-​leaf. With life, with heart, with mind,-nay, with the help Of all five sens­es–let­ting self­hood go– Yo­gins toil ev­er to­wards their souls’ re­lease. Such votaries, re­nounc­ing fruit of deeds, Gain end­less peace: the un­vowed, the pas­sion-​bound, Seek­ing a fruit from works, are fas­tened down. The em­bod­ied sage, with­drawn with­in his soul, At ev­ery act sits god­like in “the town Which hath nine gate­ways,”[FN#9] nei­ther do­ing aught Nor caus­ing any deed. This world’s Lord makes Nei­ther the work, nor pas­sion for the work, Nor lust for fruit of work; the man’s own self Push­es to these! The Mas­ter of this World Takes on him­self the good or evil deeds Of no man–dwelling be­yond! Mankind errs here By fol­ly, dark­en­ing knowl­edge. But, for whom That dark­ness of the soul is chased by light, Splen­did and clear shines man­ifest the Truth As if a Sun of Wis­dom sprang to shed Its beams of dawn. Him med­itat­ing still, Him seek­ing, with Him blend­ed, stayed on Him, The souls il­lu­mi­nat­ed take that road Which hath no turn­ing back–their sins flung off By strength of faith. [Who will may have this Light; Who hath it sees.] To him who wise­ly sees, The Brah­man with his scrolls and sanc­ti­ties, The cow, the ele­phant, the un­clean dog, The Out­cast gorg­ing dog’s meat, are all one.

The world is over­come–aye! even here! By such as fix their faith on Uni­ty. The sin­less Brah­ma dwells in Uni­ty, And they in Brah­ma. Be not over-​glad At­tain­ing joy, and be not over-​sad En­coun­ter­ing grief, but, stayed on Brah­ma, still Con­stant let each abide! The sage whose sou Holds off from out­er con­tacts, in him­self Finds bliss; to Brah­ma joined by piety, His spir­it tastes eter­nal peace. The joys Spring­ing from sense-​life are but quick­en­ing wombs Which breed sure griefs: those joys be­gin and end! The wise mind takes no plea­sure, Kun­ti’s Son! In such as those! But if a man shall learn, Even while he lives and bears his body’s chain, To mas­ter lust and anger, he is blest! He is the Yuk­ta; he hath hap­pi­ness, Con­tent­ment, light, with­in: his life is merged In Brah­ma’s life; he doth Nir­vana touch! Thus go the Rishis un­to rest, who dwell With sins ef­faced, with doubts at end, with hearts Gov­erned and calm. Glad in all good they live, Nigh to the peace of God; and all those live Who pass their days ex­empt from greed and wrath, Sub­du­ing self and sens­es, know­ing the Soul!

The Saint who shuts out­side his placid soul All touch of sense, let­ting no con­tact through; Whose qui­et eyes gaze straight from fixed brows, Whose out­ward breath and in­ward breath are drawn Equal and slow through nos­trils still and close; That one-​with or­gans, heart, and mind con­strained, Bent on de­liv­er­ance, hav­ing put away Pas­sion, and fear, and rage;–hath, even now, Ob­tained de­liv­er­ance, ev­er and ev­er freed. Yea! for he knows Me Who am He that heeds The sac­ri­fice and wor­ship, God re­vealed; And He who heeds not, be­ing Lord of Worlds, Lover of all that lives, God un­re­vealed, Where­in who will shall find sure­ty and shield!

HERE ENDS CHAP­TER V. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Kar­masanyasayog,” Or “The Book of Re­li­gion by Re­nounc­ing Fruit of Works.”