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 VII

Kr­ish­na. Learn now, dear Prince! how, if thy soul be set Ev­er on Me–still ex­er­cis­ing Yog, Still mak­ing Me thy Refuge–thou shalt come Most sure­ly un­to per­fect hold of Me. I will de­clare to thee that ut­most lore, Whole and par­tic­ular, which, when thou know­est, Leaveth no more to know here in this world.

Of many thou­sand mor­tals, one, per­chance, Striv­eth for Truth; and of those few that strive– Nay, and rise high–one on­ly–here and there– Knoweth Me, as I am, the very Truth.

Earth, wa­ter, flame, air, ether, life, and mind, And in­di­vid­ual­ity–those eight Make up the show­ing of Me, Man­ifest.

These be my low­er Na­ture; learn the high­er, Where­by, thou Valiant One! this Uni­verse Is, by its prin­ci­ple of life, pro­duced; Where­by the worlds of vis­ible things are born As from a Yoni. Know! I am that womb: I make and I un­make this Uni­verse: Than me there is no oth­er Mas­ter, Prince! No oth­er Mak­er! All these hang on me As hangs a row of pearls up­on its string. I am the fresh taste of the wa­ter; I The sil­ver of the moon, the gold o’ the sun, The word of wor­ship in the Veds, the thrill That pas­seth in the ether, and the strength Of man’s shed seed. I am the good sweet smell Of the moist­ened earth, I am the fire’s red light, The vi­tal air mov­ing in all which moves, The ho­li­ness of hal­lowed souls, the root Undy­ing, whence hath sprung what­ev­er is; The wis­dom of the wise, the in­tel­lect Of the in­formed, the great­ness of the great. The splen­dour of the splen­did. Kun­ti’s Son! These am I, free from pas­sion and de­sire; Yet am I right de­sire in all who yearn, Chief of the Bharatas! for all those moods, Sooth­fast, or pas­sion­ate, or ig­no­rant, Which Na­ture frames, de­duce from me; but all Are merged in me–not I in them! The world– De­ceived by those three qual­ities of be­ing– Wot­teth not Me Who am out­side them all, Above them all, Eter­nal! Hard it is To pierce that veil di­vine of var­ious shows Which hideth Me; yet they who wor­ship Me Pierce it and pass be­yond.

I am not known To evil-​do­ers, nor to fool­ish ones, Nor to the base and churl­ish; nor to those Whose mind is cheat­ed by the show of things, Nor those that take the way of Asur­as.[FN#12]

Four sorts of mor­tals know me: he who weeps, Ar­ju­na! and the man who yearns to know; And he who toils to help; and he who sits Cer­tain of me, en­light­ened.

Of these four, O Prince of In­dia! high­est, near­est, best That last is, the de­vout soul, wise, in­tent Up­on “The One.” Dear, above all, am I To him; and he is dear­est un­to me! All four are good, and seek me; but mine own, The true of heart, the faith­ful–stayed on me, Tak­ing me as their ut­most blessed­ness, They are not “mine,”but I–even I my­self! At end of many births to Me they come! Yet hard the wise Ma­hat­ma is to find, That man who sayeth, “All is Va­sudev!”[FN#13]

There be those, too, whose knowl­edge, turned aside By this de­sire or that, gives them to serve Some low­er gods, with var­ious rites, con­strained By that which mouldeth them. Un­to all such– Wor­ship what shrine they will, what shapes, in faith– ‘Tis I who give them faith! I am con­tent! The heart thus ask­ing favour from its God, Dark­ened but ar­dent, hath the end it craves, The less­er bless­ing–but ’tis I who give! Yet soon is with­ered what small fruit they reap: Those men of lit­tle minds, who wor­ship so, Go where they wor­ship, pass­ing with their gods. But Mine come un­to me! Blind are the eyes Which deem th’ Un­man­ifest­ed man­ifest, Not com­pre­hend­ing Me in my true Self! Im­per­ish­able, view­less, un­de­clared, Hid­den be­hind my mag­ic veil of shows, I am not seen by all; I am not known– Un­born and change­less–to the idle world. But I, Ar­ju­na! know all things which were, And all which are, and all which are to be, Al­beit not one among them knoweth Me!

By pas­sion for the “pairs of op­po­sites,” By those twain snares of Like and Dis­like, Prince! All crea­tures live be­wil­dered, save some few Who, quit of sins, holy in act, in­formed, Freed from the “op­po­sites,”and fixed in faith, Cleave un­to Me.

Who cleave, who seek in Me Refuge from birth[FN#14] and death, those have the Truth! Those know Me BRAH­MA; know Me Soul of Souls, The AD­HY­AT­MAN; know KAR­MA, my work; Know I am AD­HIB­HUTA, Lord of Life, And AD­HIDAI­VA, Lord of all the Gods, And AD­HIYA­JNA, Lord of Sac­ri­fice; Wor­ship Me well, with hearts of love and faith, And find and hold me in the hour of death.

HERE EN­DETH CHAP­TER VII. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Vi­jnanayog,” Or “The Book of Re­li­gion by Dis­cern­ment.”