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 VIII

Ar­ju­na. Who is that BRAH­MA? What that Soul of Souls, The AD­HY­AT­MAN? What, Thou Best of All! Thy work, the KAR­MA? Tell me what it is Thou namest AD­HIB­HUTA? What again Means AD­HIDAI­VA? Yea, and how it comes Thou canst be AD­HIYA­JNA in thy flesh? Slay­er of Mad­hu! Fur­ther, make me know How good men find thee in the hour of death?

Kr­ish­na. I BRAH­MA am! the One Eter­nal GOD, And AD­HY­AT­MAN is My Be­ing’s name, The Soul of Souls! What goeth forth from Me, Caus­ing all life to live, is KAR­MA called: And, Man­ifest­ed in di­vid­ed forms, I am the AD­HIB­HUTA, Lord of Lives; And AD­HIDAI­VA, Lord of all the Gods, Be­cause I am PU­RUSHA, who begets. And AD­HIYA­JNA, Lord of Sac­ri­fice, I–speak­ing with thee in this body here– Am, thou em­bod­ied one! (for all the shrines Flame un­to Me!) And, at the hour of death, He that hath med­itat­ed Me alone, In putting off his flesh, comes forth to Me, En­ters in­to My Be­ing–doubt thou not! But, if he med­itat­ed oth­er­wise At hour of death, in putting off the flesh, He goes to what he looked for, Kun­ti’s Son! Be­cause the Soul is fash­ioned to its like.

Have Me, then, in thy heart al­ways! and fight! Thou too, when heart and mind are fixed on Me, Shalt sure­ly come to Me! All come who cleave With nev­er-​wa­ver­ing will of firmest faith, Own­ing none oth­er Gods: all come to Me, The Ut­ter­most, Pu­rusha, Holi­est!

Whoso hath known Me, Lord of sage and singer, An­cient of days; of all the Three Worlds Stay, Bound­less,–but un­to ev­ery atom Bringer Of that which quick­ens it: whoso, I say,

Hath known My form, which pas­seth mor­tal know­ing; Seen my ef­ful­gence–which no eye hath seen– Than the sun’s burn­ing gold more bright­ly glow­ing, Dis­pers­ing dark­ness,–un­to him hath been

Right life! And, in the hour when life is end­ing, With mind set fast and trust­ful piety, Draw­ing still breath be­neath calm brows un­bend­ing, In hap­py peace that faith­ful one doth die,–

In glad peace pas­seth to Pu­rusha’s heav­en. The place which they who read the Vedas name AK­SHARAM, “Ul­ti­mate;” where­to have striv­en Saints and as­cetics–their road is the same.

That way–the high­est way–goes he who shuts The gates of all his sens­es, locks de­sire Safe in his heart, cen­tres the vi­tal airs Up­on his part­ing thought, stead­fast­ly set; And, mur­mur­ing OM, the sa­cred syl­la­ble– Em­blem of BRAHM–dies, med­itat­ing Me.

For who, none oth­er Gods re­gard­ing, looks Ev­er to Me, eas­ily am I gained By such a Yo­gi; and, at­tain­ing Me, They fall not–those Ma­hat­mas–back to birth, To life, which is the place of pain, which ends, But take the way of ut­most blessed­ness.

The worlds, Ar­ju­na!–even Brah­ma’s world– Roll back again from Death to Life’s un­rest; But they, O Kun­ti’s Son! that reach to Me, Taste birth no more. If ye know Brah­ma’s Day Which is a thou­sand Yu­gas; if ye know The thou­sand Yu­gas mak­ing Brah­ma’s Night, Then know ye Day and Night as He doth know! When that vast Dawn doth break, th’ In­vis­ible Is brought anew in­to the Vis­ible; When that deep Night doth dark­en, all which is Fades back again to Him Who sent it forth; Yea! this vast com­pa­ny of liv­ing things– Again and yet again pro­duced–ex­pires At Brah­ma’s Night­fall; and, at Brah­ma’s Dawn, Riseth, with­out its will, to life new-​born. But–high­er, deep­er, in­ner­most–abides An­oth­er Life, not like the life of sense, Es­cap­ing sight, un­chang­ing. This en­dures When all cre­at­ed things have passed away: This is that Life named the Un­man­ifest, The In­fi­nite! the All! the Ut­ter­most. Thith­er ar­riv­ing none re­turn. That Life Is Mine, and I am there! And, Prince! by faith Which wan­ders not, there is a way to come Thith­er. I, the PU­RUSHA, I Who spread The Uni­verse around me–in Whom dwell All liv­ing Things–may so be reached and seen!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . [FN#14]

Rich­er than holy fruit on Vedas grow­ing, Greater than gifts, bet­ter than prayer or fast, Such wis­dom is! The Yo­gi, this way know­ing, Comes to the Ut­most Per­fect Peace at last.

HERE EN­DETH CHAP­TER VI­II. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Ak­shara­parabrah­mayog,” Or “The book of Re­li­gion by De­vo­tion to the One Supreme God.”

CHAP­TER IX

Kr­ish­na. Now will I open un­to thee–whose heart Re­jects not–that last lore, deep­est-​con­cealed, That far­thest se­cret of My Heav­ens and Earths, Which but to know shall set thee free from ills,– A roy­al lore! a King­ly mys­tery! Yea! for the soul such light as pur­geth it From ev­ery sin; a light of ho­li­ness With in­most splen­dour shin­ing; plain to see; Easy to walk by, in­ex­haustible!

They that re­ceive not this, fail­ing in faith To grasp the greater wis­dom, reach not Me, De­stroy­er of thy foes! They sink anew In­to the realm of Flesh, where all things change!

By Me the whole vast Uni­verse of things Is spread abroad;–by Me, the Un­man­ifest! In Me are all ex­is­tences con­tained; Not I in them!

Yet they are not con­tained, Those vis­ible things! Re­ceive and strive to em­brace The mys­tery ma­jes­ti­cal! My Be­ing– Cre­at­ing all, sus­tain­ing all–still dwells Out­side of all!

See! as the shore­less airs Move in the mea­sure­less space, but are not space, [And space were space with­out the mov­ing airs]; So all things are in Me, but are not I.

At clos­ing of each Kalpa, In­di­an Prince! All things which be back to My Be­ing come: At the be­gin­ning of each Kalpa, all Is­sue new-​born from Me.

By En­er­gy And help of Prakri­ti my out­er Self, Again, and yet again, I make go forth The realms of vis­ible things–with­out their will– All of them–by the pow­er of Prakri­ti.

Yet these great mak­ings, Prince! in­volve Me not En­chain Me not! I sit apart from them, Oth­er, and High­er, and Free; no­wise at­tached!

Thus doth the stuff of worlds, mould­ed by Me, Bring forth all that which is, mov­ing or still, Liv­ing or life­less! Thus the worlds go on!

The minds un­taught mis­take Me, veiled in form;– Naught see they of My se­cret Pres­ence, nought Of My hid Na­ture, rul­ing all which lives. Vain hopes pur­su­ing, vain deeds do­ing; fed On vainest knowl­edge, sense­less­ly they seek An evil way, the way of brutes and fiends. But My Ma­hat­mas, those of no­ble soul Who tread the path ce­les­tial, wor­ship Me With hearts un­wan­der­ing,–know­ing Me the Source, Th’ Eter­nal Source, of Life. Un­end­ing­ly They glo­ri­fy Me; seek Me; keep their vows Of rev­er­ence and love, with change­less faith Ador­ing Me. Yea, and those too adore, Who, of­fer­ing sac­ri­fice of wak­ened hearts, Have sense of one per­vad­ing Spir­it’s stress, One Force in ev­ery place, though man­ifold! I am the Sac­ri­fice! I am the Prayer! I am the Fu­ner­al-​Cake set for the dead! I am the heal­ing herb! I am the ghee, The Mantra, and the flame, and that which burns! I am-​of all this bound­less Uni­verse- The Fa­ther, Moth­er, An­ces­tor, and Guard! The end of Learn­ing! That which pu­ri­fies In lus­tral wa­ter! I am OM! I am Rig-​Ve­da, Sama-​Ve­da, Ya­jur-​Ved; The Way, the Fos­ter­er, the Lord, the Judge, The Wit­ness; the Abode, the Refuge-​House, The Friend, the Foun­tain and the Sea of Life Which sends, and swal­lows up; Trea­sure of Worlds And Trea­sure-​Cham­ber! Seed and Seed-​Sow­er, Whence end­less har­vests spring! Sun’s heat is mine; Heav­en’s rain is mine to grant or to with­hold; Death am I, and Im­mor­tal Life I am, Ar­ju­na! SAT and ASAT, Vis­ible Life, And Life In­vis­ible!

Yea! those who learn The three­fold Veds, who drink the So­ma-​wine, Purge sins, pay sac­ri­fice–from Me they earn Pas­sage to Swar­ga; where the meats di­vine

Of great gods feed them in high In­dra’s heav­en. Yet they, when that prodi­gious joy is o’er, Par­adise spent, and wage for mer­its giv­en, Come to the world of death and change once more.

They had their rec­om­pense! they stored their trea­sure, Fol­low­ing the three­fold Scrip­ture and its writ; Who seeketh such gaineth the fleet­ing plea­sure Of joy which comes and goes! I grant them it!

But to those blessed ones who wor­ship Me, Turn­ing not oth­er­where, with minds set fast, I bring as­sur­ance of full bliss be­yond.

Nay, and of hearts which fol­low oth­er gods In sim­ple faith, their prayers arise to me, O Kun­ti’s Son! though they pray wrong­ful­ly; For I am the Re­ceiv­er and the Lord Of ev­ery sac­ri­fice, which these know not Right­ful­ly; so they fall to earth again! Who fol­low gods go to their gods; who vow Their souls to Pitris go to Pitris; minds To evil Bhuts giv­en o’er sink to the Bhuts; And whoso loveth Me cometh to Me. Whoso shall of­fer Me in faith and love A leaf, a flow­er, a fruit, wa­ter poured forth, That of­fer­ing I ac­cept, lov­ing­ly made With pi­ous will. Whate’er thou doest, Prince! Eat­ing or sac­ri­fic­ing, giv­ing gifts, Pray­ing or fast­ing, let it all be done For Me, as Mine. So shalt thou free thy­self From Karma­bandh, the chain which hold­eth men To good and evil is­sue, so shalt come Safe un­to Me-​when thou art quit of flesh– By faith and ab­di­ca­tion joined to Me!

I am alike for all! I know not hate, I know not favour! What is made is Mine! But them that wor­ship Me with love, I love; They are in Me, and I in them!

Nay, Prince! If one of evil life turn in his thought Straight­ly to Me, count him amidst the good; He hath the high way cho­sen; he shall grow Righ­teous ere long; he shall at­tain that peace Which changes not. Thou Prince of In­dia! Be cer­tain none can per­ish, trust­ing Me! O Pritha’s Son! whoso will turn to Me, Though they be born from the very womb of Sin, Wom­an or man; sprung of the Vaisya caste Or low­ly dis­re­gard­ed Su­dra,–all Plant foot up­on the high­est path; how then The holy Brah­mans and My Roy­al Saints? Ah! ye who in­to this ill world are come– Fleet­ing and false–set your faith fast on Me! Fix heart and thought on Me! Adore Me! Bring Of­fer­ings to Me! Make Me pros­tra­tions! Make Me your supremest joy! and, un­di­vid­ed, Un­to My rest your spir­its shall be guid­ed.

HERE ENDS CHAP­TER IX. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Ra­javid­yara­jaguhyayog,” Or “The Book of Re­li­gion by the King­ly Knowl­edge and the King­ly Mys­tery.”

CHAP­TER X

Kr­ish­na.[FN#l6] Hear far­ther yet, thou Long-​Armed Lord! these lat­est words I say– Ut­tered to bring thee bliss and peace, who lovest Me al­way– Not the great com­pa­ny of gods nor king­ly Rishis know My Na­ture, Who have made the gods and Rishis long ago; He on­ly knoweth-​on­ly he is free of sin, and wise, Who seeth Me, Lord of the Worlds, with faith-​en­light­ened eyes, Un­born, undy­ing, un­be­gun. What­ev­er Na­tures be To mor­tal men dis­tribut­ed, those na­tures spring from Me! In­tel­lect, skill, en­light­en­ment, en­durance, self-​con­trol, Truth­ful­ness, equa­bil­ity, and grief or joy of soul, And birth and death, and fear­ful­ness, and fear­less­ness, and shame, And hon­our, and sweet harm­less­ness,[FN#17] and peace which is the same Whate’er be­falls, and mirth, and tears, and piety, and thrift, And wish to give, and will to help,–all cometh of My gift! The Sev­en Chief Saints, the El­ders Four, the Lord­ly Manus set– Shar­ing My work–to rule the worlds, these too did I beget; And Rishis, Pitris, Manus, all, by one thought of My mind; Thence did arise, to fill this world, the races of mankind; Where­from who com­pre­hends My Reign of mys­tic Majesty– That truth of truths–is thence­forth linked in fault­less faith to Me: Yea! know­ing Me the source of all, by Me all crea­tures wrought, The wise in spir­it cleave to Me, in­to My Be­ing brought; Hearts fixed on Me; breaths breathed to Me; prais­ing Me, each to each, So have they hap­pi­ness and peace, with pi­ous thought and speech; And un­to these–thus serv­ing well, thus lov­ing cease­less­ly– I give a mind of per­fect mood, where­by they draw to Me; And, all for love of them, with­in their dark­ened souls I dwell, And, with bright rays of wis­dom’s lamp, their ig­no­rance dis­pel.

Ar­ju­na. Yes! Thou art Parabrahm! The High Abode! The Great Pu­rifi­ca­tion! Thou art God Eter­nal, All-​cre­at­ing, Holy, First, With­out be­gin­ning! Lord of Lords and Gods! De­clared by all the Saints–by Nara­da, Vyasa Asita, and De­valas; And here Thy­self declar­ing un­to me! What Thou hast said now know I to be truth, O Ke­sa­va! that nei­ther gods nor men Nor demons com­pre­hend Thy mys­tery Made man­ifest, Di­vinest! Thou Thy­self Thy­self alone dost know, Mak­er Supreme! Mas­ter of all the liv­ing! Lord of Gods! King of the Uni­verse! To Thee alone Be­longs to tell the heav­en­ly ex­cel­lence Of those per­fec­tions where­with Thou dost fill These worlds of Thine; Per­vad­ing, Im­ma­nent! How shall I learn, Supremest Mys­tery! To know Thee, though I muse con­tin­ual­ly? Un­der what form of Thine un­num­bered forms Mayst Thou be grasped? Ah! yet again re­count, Clear and com­plete, Thy great ap­pear­ances, The se­crets of Thy Majesty and Might, Thou High De­light of Men! Nev­er enough Can mine ears drink the Am­rit[FN#18] of such words!

Kr­ish­na. Han­ta! So be it! Ku­ru Prince! I will to thee un­fold Some por­tions of My Majesty, whose pow­ers are man­ifold! I am the Spir­it seat­ed deep in ev­ery crea­ture’s heart; From Me they come; by Me they live; at My word they de­part! Vish­nu of the Adityas I am, those Lords of Light; Mar­itchi of the Maruts, the Kings of Storm and Blight; By day I gleam, the gold­en Sun of burn­ing cloud­less Noon; By Night, amid the as­ter­isms I glide, the dap­pled Moon! Of Vedas I am Sama-​Ved, of gods in In­dra’s Heav­en Vasa­va; of the fac­ul­ties to liv­ing be­ings giv­en The mind which ap­pre­hends and thinks; of Rudras Sankara; Of Yak­shas and of Rak­shasas, Vittesh; and Pava­ka Of Va­sus, and of moun­tain-​peaks Meru; Vri­has­pati Know Me ‘mid plan­etary Pow­ers; ‘mid War­riors heav­en­ly Skan­da; of all the wa­ter-​floods the Sea which drin­keth each, And Bhrigu of the holy Saints, and OM of sa­cred speech; Of prayers the prayer ye whis­per;[FN#19] of hills Hi­mala’s snow, And Aswattha, the fig-​tree, of all the trees that grow; Of the De­varshis, Nara­da; and Chi­trarath of them That sing in Heav­en, and Kapi­la of Mu­nis, and the gem Of fly­ing steeds, Uchchais­ravas, from Am­rit-​wave which burst; Of ele­phants Aira­va­ta; of males the Best and First; Of weapons Heav’n’s hot thun­der­bolt; of cows white Ka­mad­huk, From whose great milky ud­der-​teats all hearts’ de­sires are strook; Va­su­ki of the ser­pent-​tribes, round Man­dara en­twined; And thou­sand-​fanged Anan­ta, on whose broad coils re­clined Leans Vish­nu; and of wa­ter-​things Varuna; Aryam Of Pitris, and, of those that judge, Ya­ma the Judge I am; Of Daityas dread Prahla­da; of what metes days and years, Time’s self I am; of wood­land-​beasts-​buf­faloes, deers, and bears- The lord­ly-​paint­ed tiger; of birds the vast Garud, The whirl­wind ‘mid the winds; ‘mid chiefs Ra­ma with blood im­brued, Makar ‘mid fish­es of the sea, and Ganges ‘mid the streams; Yea! First, and Last, and Cen­tre of all which is or seems I am, Ar­ju­na! Wis­dom Supreme of what is wise, Words on the ut­ter­ing lips I am, and eye­sight of the eyes, And “A” of writ­ten char­ac­ters, Dwand­wa[FN#20] of knit­ted speech, And End­less Life, and bound­less Love, whose pow­er sus­taineth each; And bit­ter Death which seizes all, and joy­ous sud­den Birth, Which brings to light all be­ings that are to be on earth; And of the view­less virtues, Fame, For­tune, Song am I, And Mem­ory, and Pa­tience; and Craft, and Con­stan­cy: Of Vedic hymns the Vri­hat­sam, of me­tres Gay­atri, Of months the Mar­gasir­sha, of all the sea­sons three The flow­er-​wreathed Spring; in dicer’s-​play the con­quer­ing Dou­ble-​Eight; The splen­dour of the splen­did, and the great­ness of the great, Vic­to­ry I am, and Ac­tion! and the good­ness of the good, And Va­sudev of Vr­ish­ni’s race, and of this Pan­du brood Thy­self!–Yea, my Ar­ju­na! thy­self; for thou art Mine! Of po­ets Us­ana, of saints Vyasa, sage di­vine; The pol­icy of con­querors, the po­ten­cy of kings, The great un­bro­ken si­lence in learn­ing’s se­cret things; The lore of all the learned, the seed of all which springs. Liv­ing or life­less, still or stirred, what­ev­er be­ings be, None of them is in all the worlds, but it ex­ists by Me! Nor tongue can tell, Ar­ju­na! nor end of telling come Of these My bound­less glo­ries, where­of I teach thee some; For where­soe’er is won­drous work, and majesty, and might, From Me hath all pro­ceed­ed. Re­ceive thou this aright! Yet how shouldst thou re­ceive, O Prince! the vast­ness of this word? I, who am all, and made it all, abide its sep­arate Lord!

HERE EN­DETH CHAP­TER X. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Vib­huti Yog,” Or “The Book of Re­li­gion by the Heav­en­ly Per­fec­tions.”

CHAP­TER XI

Ar­ju­na. This, for my soul’s peace, have I heard from Thee, The un­fold­ing of the Mys­tery Supreme Named Ad­hy­at­man; com­pre­hend­ing which, My dark­ness is dis­pelled; for now I know– O Lo­tus-​eyed![FN#21]–whence is the birth of men, And whence their death, and what the majesties Of Thine im­mor­tal rule. Fain would I see, As thou Thy­self declar’st it, Sovereign Lord! The like­ness of that glo­ry of Thy Form Whol­ly re­vealed. O Thou Di­vinest One! If this can be, if I may bear the sight, Make Thy­self vis­ible, Lord of all prayers! Show me Thy very self, the Eter­nal God!

Kr­ish­na. Gaze, then, thou Son of Pritha! I man­ifest for thee Those hun­dred thou­sand thou­sand shapes that clothe my Mys­tery: I show thee all my sem­blances, in­fi­nite, rich, di­vine, My change­ful hues, my count­less forms. See! in this face of mine, Adityas, Va­sus, Rudras, Aswins, and Maruts; see Won­ders un­num­bered, In­di­an Prince! re­vealed to none save thee. Be­hold! this is the Uni­verse!–Look! what is live and dead I gath­er all in one–in Me! Gaze, as thy lips have said, On GOD ETER­NAL, VERY GOD! See Me! see what thou prayest!

Thou canst not!–nor, with hu­man eyes, Ar­ju­na! ev­er mayest! There­fore I give thee sense di­vine. Have oth­er eyes, new light! And, look! This is My glo­ry, un­veiled to mor­tal sight!

San­jaya. Then, O King! the God, so say­ing, Stood, to Pritha’s Son dis­play­ing All the splen­dour, won­der, dread Of His vast Almighty-​head. Out of count­less eyes be­hold­ing, Out of count­less mouths com­mand­ing, Count­less mys­tic forms en­fold­ing In one Form: supreme­ly stand­ing Count­less ra­di­ant glo­ries wear­ing, Count­less heav­en­ly weapons bear­ing, Crowned with gar­lands of star-​clus­ters, Robed in garb of wo­ven lus­tres, Breath­ing from His per­fect Pres­ence Breaths of ev­ery sub­tle essence Of all heav­en­ly odours; shed­ding Blind­ing bril­liance; over­spread­ing– Bound­less, beau­ti­ful–all spaces With His all-​re­gard­ing faces; So He showed! If there should rise Sud­den­ly with­in the skies Sun­burst of a thou­sand suns Flood­ing earth with beams un­deemed-​of, Then might be that Holy One’s Majesty and ra­di­ance dreamed of!

So did Pan­du’s Son be­hold All this uni­verse en­fold All its huge di­ver­si­ty In­to one vast shape, and be Vis­ible, and viewed, and blend­ed In one Body–sub­tle, splen­did, Name­less–th’ All-​com­pre­hend­ing God of Gods, the Nev­er-​End­ing De­ity!

But, sore amazed, Thrilled, o’er­filled, daz­zled, and dazed, Ar­ju­na knelt; and bowed his head, And clasped his palms; and cried, and said:

Ar­ju­na. Yea! I have seen! I see! Lord! all is wrapped in Thee! The gods are in Thy glo­ri­ous frame! the crea­tures Of earth, and heav­en, and hell In Thy Di­vine form dwell, And in Thy coun­te­nance shine all the fea­tures

Of Brah­ma, sit­ting lone Up­on His lo­tus-​throne; Of saints and sages, and the ser­pent races Anan­ta, Va­su­ki; Yea! might­iest Lord! I see Thy thou­sand thou­sand arms, and breasts, and faces, And eyes,–on ev­ery side Per­fect, di­ver­si­fied; And nowhere end of Thee, nowhere be­gin­ning, Nowhere a cen­tre! Shifts– Wher­ev­er soul’s gaze lifts– Thy cen­tral Self, all-​wield­ing, and all-​win­ning!

In­fi­nite King! I see The ana­dem on Thee, The club, the shell, the dis­cus; see Thee burn­ing In beams in­suf­fer­able, Light­ing earth, heav­en, and hell With bril­liance blaz­ing, glow­ing, flash­ing; turn­ing

Dark­ness to daz­zling day, Look I whichev­er way; Ah, Lord! I wor­ship Thee, the Un­di­vid­ed, The Ut­ter­most of thought, The Trea­sure-​Palace wrought To hold the wealth of the worlds; the Shield pro­vid­ed

To shel­ter Virtue’s laws; The Fount whence Life’s stream draws All wa­ters of all rivers of all be­ing: The One Un­born, Un­end­ing: Un­chang­ing and Un­blend­ing! With might and majesty, past thought, past see­ing!

Sil­ver of moon and gold Of sun are glo­ries rolled From Thy great eyes; Thy vis­age, beam­ing ten­der Through­out the stars and skies, Doth to warm life sur­prise Thy Uni­verse. The worlds are filled with won­der

Of Thy per­fec­tions! Space Star-​sprin­kled, and void place From pole to pole of the Blue, from bound to bound, Hath Thee in ev­ery spot, Thee, Thee!–Where Thou art not, O Holy, Mar­vel­lous Form! is nowhere found!

O Mys­tic, Aw­ful One! At sight of Thee, made known, The Three Worlds quake; the low­er gods draw nigh Thee; They fold their palms, and bow Body, and breast, and brow, And, whis­per­ing wor­ship, laud and mag­ni­fy Thee!

Rishis and Sid­dhas cry “Hail! High­est Majesty!” From sage and singer breaks the hymn of glo­ry In dul­cet har­mo­ny, Sound­ing the praise of Thee; While count­less com­pa­nies take up the sto­ry,

Rudras, who ride the storms, Th’ Adityas’ shin­ing forms, Va­sus and Sad­hyas, Viswas, Ushma­pas; Maruts, and those great Twins The heav­en­ly, fair, Aswins, Gand­har­vas, Rak­shasas, Sid­dhas, and Asur­as,[FN#22]–

These see Thee, and re­vere In sud­den-​strick­en fear; Yea! the Worlds,–see­ing Thee with form stu­pen­dous, With faces man­ifold, With eyes which all be­hold, Un­num­bered eyes, vast arms, mem­bers tremen­dous,

Flanks, lit with sun and star, Feet plant­ed near and far, Tush­es of ter­ror, mouths wrath­ful and ten­der;– The Three wide Worlds be­fore Thee Adore, as I adore Thee, Quake, as I quake, to wit­ness so much splen­dour!

I mark Thee strike the skies With front, in won­drous wise Huge, rain­bow-​paint­ed, glit­ter­ing; and thy mouth Opened, and orbs which see All things, what­ev­er be In all Thy worlds, east, west, and north and south.

O Eyes of God! O Head! My strength of soul is fled, Gone is heart’s force, re­buked is mind’s de­sire! When I be­hold Thee so, With aw­ful brows a-​glow, With burn­ing glance, and lips light­ed by fire

Fierce as those flames which shall Con­sume, at close of all, Earth, Heav­en! Ah me! I see no Earth and Heav­en! Thee, Lord of Lords! I see, Thee on­ly-​on­ly Thee! Now let Thy mer­cy un­to me be giv­en,

Thou Refuge of the World! Lo! to the cav­ern hurled Of Thy wide-​opened throat, and lips white-​tushed, I see our no­blest ones, Great Dhri­tarash­tra’s sons, Bhish­ma, Drona, and Kar­na, caught and crushed!

The Kings and Chiefs drawn in, That gap­ing gorge with­in; The best of both these armies torn and riv­en! Be­tween Thy jaws they lie Man­gled full blood­ily, Ground in­to dust and death! Like streams down-​driv­en

With help­less haste, which go In head­long fu­ri­ous flow Straight to the gulf­ing deeps of th’ un­filled ocean, So to that flam­ing cave Those heroes great and brave Pour, in un­end­ing streams, with help­less mo­tion!

Like moths which in the night Flut­ter to­wards a light, Drawn to their fiery doom, fly­ing and dy­ing, So to their death still throng, Blind, daz­zled, borne along Cease­less­ly, all those mul­ti­tudes, wild fly­ing!

Thou, that hast fash­ioned men, De­vourest them again, One with an­oth­er, great and small, alike! The crea­tures whom Thou mak’st, With flam­ing jaws Thou tak’st, Lap­ping them up! Lord God! Thy ter­rors strike

From end to end of earth, Fill­ing life full, from birth To death, with dead­ly, burn­ing, lurid dread! Ah, Vish­nu! make me know Why is Thy vis­age so? Who art Thou, feast­ing thus up­on Thy dead?

Who? aw­ful De­ity! I bow my­self to Thee, Namostu Te, De­vavara! Prasid![FN#23] O Might­iest Lord! re­hearse Why hast Thou face so fierce? Whence doth this as­pect hor­ri­ble pro­ceed?

Kr­ish­na. Thou seest Me as Time who kills, Time who brings all to doom, The Slay­er Time, An­cient of Days, come hith­er to con­sume; Ex­cept­ing thee, of all these hosts of hos­tile chiefs ar­rayed, There stands not one shall leave alive the bat­tle­field! Dis­mayed No longer be! Arise! ob­tain renown! de­stroy thy foes! Fight for the king­dom wait­ing thee when thou hast van­quished those. By Me they fall–not thee! the stroke of death is dealt them now, Even as they show thus gal­lant­ly; My in­stru­ment art thou! Strike, strong-​armed Prince, at Drona! at Bhish­ma strike! deal death On Kar­na, Jyadratha; stay all their war­like breath! ‘Tis I who bid them per­ish! Thou wilt but slay the slain; Fight! they must fall, and thou must live, vic­tor up­on this plain!

San­jaya. Hear­ing mighty Ke­shav’s word, Trem­bling­ly that helmed Lord Clasped his lift­ed palms, and–pray­ing Grace of Kr­ish­na–stood there, say­ing, With bowed brow and ac­cents bro­ken, These words, tim­orous­ly spo­ken:

Ar­ju­na. Worthi­ly, Lord of Might! The whole world hath de­light In Thy sur­pass­ing pow­er, obey­ing Thee; The Rak­shasas, in dread At sight of Thee, are sped To all four quar­ters; and the com­pa­ny

Of Sid­dhas sound Thy name. How should they not pro­claim Thy Majesties, Di­vinest, Might­iest? Thou Brahm, than Brah­ma greater! Thou In­fi­nite Cre­ator! Thou God of gods, Life’s Dwelling-​place and Rest!

Thou, of all souls the Soul! The Com­pre­hend­ing Whole! Of be­ing formed, and form­less be­ing the Framer; O Ut­most One! O Lord! Old­er than eld, Who stored The worlds with wealth of life! O Trea­sure-​Claimer,

Who wottest all, and art Wis­dom Thy­self! O Part In all, and All; for all from Thee have risen Num­ber­less now I see The as­pects are of Thee! Vayu[FN#24] Thou art, and He who keeps the prison

Of Narak, Ya­ma dark; And Ag­ni’s shin­ing spark; Varuna’s waves are Thy waves. Moon and starlight Are Thine! Pra­jap­ati Art Thou, and ’tis to Thee They knelt in wor­ship­ping the old world’s far light,

The first of mor­tal men. Again, Thou God! again A thou­sand thou­sand times be mag­ni­fied! Hon­our and wor­ship be– Glo­ry and praise,–to Thee Namo, Na­maste, cried on ev­ery side;

Cried here, above, be­low, Ut­tered when Thou dost go, Ut­tered where Thou dost come! Namo! we call; Namostu! God adored! Namostu! Name­less Lord! Hail to Thee! Praise to Thee! Thou One in all;

For Thou art All! Yea, Thou! Ah! if in anger now Thou shouldst re­mem­ber I did think Thee Friend, Speak­ing with easy speech, As men use each to each; Did call Thee “Kr­ish­na,” “Prince,” nor com­pre­hend

Thy hid­den majesty, The might, the awe of Thee; Did, in my heed­less­ness, or in my love, On jour­ney, or in jest, Or when we lay at rest, Sit­ting at coun­cil, stray­ing in the grove,

Alone, or in the throng, Do Thee, most Holy! wrong, Be Thy grace grant­ed for that wit­less sin! For Thou art, now I know, Fa­ther of all be­low, Of all above, of all the worlds with­in

Gu­ru of Gu­rus; more To rev­er­ence and adore Than all which is adorable and high! How, in the wide worlds three Should any equal be? Should any oth­er share Thy Majesty?

There­fore, with body bent And rev­er­ent in­tent, I praise, and serve, and seek Thee, ask­ing grace. As fa­ther to a son, As friend to friend, as one Who loveth to his lover, turn Thy face

In gen­tle­ness on me! Good is it I did see This un­known mar­vel of Thy Form! But fear Min­gles with joy! Re­take, Dear Lord! for pity’s sake Thine earth­ly shape, which earth­ly eyes may bear!

Be mer­ci­ful, and show The vis­age that I know; Let me re­gard Thee, as of yore, ar­rayed With disc and fore­head-​gem, With mace and ana­dem, Thou that sus­tainest all things! Undis­mayed

Let me once more be­hold The form I loved of old, Thou of the thou­sand arms and count­less eyes! This fright­ened heart is fain To see re­stored again My Char­io­teer, in Kr­ish­na’s kind dis­guise.

Kr­ish­na. Yea! thou hast seen, Ar­ju­na! be­cause I loved thee well, The se­cret coun­te­nance of Me, re­vealed by mys­tic spell, Shin­ing, and won­der­ful, and vast, ma­jes­tic, man­ifold, Which none save thou in all the years had favour to be­hold; For not by Vedas cometh this, nor sac­ri­fice, nor alms, Nor works well-​done, nor penance long, nor prayers, nor chaunt­ed psalms, That mor­tal eyes should bear to view the Im­mor­tal Soul un­clad, Prince of the Ku­rus! This was kept for thee alone! Be glad! Let no more trou­ble shake thy heart, be­cause thine eyes have seen My ter­ror with My glo­ry. As I be­fore have been So will I be again for thee; with light­ened heart be­hold! Once more I am thy Kr­ish­na, the form thou knew’st of old!

San­jaya. These words to Ar­ju­na spake Va­sudev, and straight did take Back again the sem­blance dear Of the well-​loved char­io­teer; Peace and joy it did re­store When the Prince be­held once more Mighty BRAH­MA’s form and face Clothed in Kr­ish­na’s gen­tle grace.

Ar­ju­na. Now that I see come back, Ja­nar­dana! This friend­ly hu­man frame, my mind can think Calm thoughts once more; my heart beats still again!

Kr­ish­na. Yea! it was won­der­ful and ter­ri­ble To view me as thou didst, dear Prince! The gods Dread and de­sire con­tin­ual­ly to view! Yet not by Vedas, nor from sac­ri­fice, Nor penance, nor gift-​giv­ing, nor with prayer Shall any so be­hold, as thou hast seen! On­ly by fullest ser­vice, per­fect faith, And ut­ter­most sur­ren­der am I known And seen, and en­tered in­to, In­di­an Prince! Who doeth all for Me; who find­eth Me In all; adoreth al­ways; loveth all Which I have made, and Me, for Love’s sole end That man, Ar­ju­na! un­to Me doth wend.

HERE EN­DETH CHAP­TER XI. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Viswaru­padarsanam,” Or “The Book of the Man­ifest­ing of the One and Man­ifold.”

CHAP­TER XII

Ar­ju­na. Lord! of the men who serve Thee–true in heart– As God re­vealed; and of the men who serve, Wor­ship­ping Thee Un­re­vealed, Un­bod­ied, Far, Which take the bet­ter way of faith and life?

Kr­ish­na. Who­ev­er serve Me–as I show My­self– Con­stant­ly true, in full de­vo­tion fixed, Those hold I very holy. But who serve– Wor­ship­ping Me The One, The In­vis­ible, The Un­re­vealed, Un­named, Un­think­able, Ut­ter­most, All-​per­vad­ing, High­est, Sure– Who thus adore Me, mas­ter­ing their sense, Of one set mind to all, glad in all good, These blessed souls come un­to Me.

Yet, hard The tra­vail is for such as bend their minds To reach th’ Un­man­ifest That view­less path Shall scarce be trod by man bear­ing the flesh! But where­so any doeth all his deeds Re­nounc­ing self for Me, full of Me, fixed To serve on­ly the High­est, night and day Mus­ing on Me–him will I swift­ly lift Forth from life’s ocean of dis­tress and death, Whose soul clings fast to Me. Cling thou to Me! Clasp Me with heart and mind! so shalt thou dwell Sure­ly with Me on high. But if thy thought Droops from such height; if thou be’st weak to set Body and soul up­on Me con­stant­ly, De­spair not! give Me low­er ser­vice! seek To reach Me, wor­ship­ping with stead­fast will; And, if thou canst not wor­ship stead­fast­ly, Work for Me, toil in works pleas­ing to Me! For he that laboureth right for love of Me Shall fi­nal­ly at­tain! But, if in this Thy faint heart fails, bring Me thy fail­ure! find Refuge in Me! let fruits of labour go, Re­nounc­ing hope for Me, with lowli­est heart, So shalt thou come; for, though to know is more Than dili­gence, yet wor­ship bet­ter is Than know­ing, and re­nounc­ing bet­ter still. Near to re­nun­ci­ation–very near– Dwelleth Eter­nal Peace!

Who hateth nought Of all which lives, liv­ing him­self be­nign, Com­pas­sion­ate, from ar­ro­gance ex­empt, Ex­empt from love of self, un­change­able By good or ill; pa­tient, con­tent­ed, firm In faith, mas­ter­ing him­self, true to his word, Seek­ing Me, heart and soul; vowed un­to Me,– That man I love! Who trou­bleth not his kind, And is not trou­bled by them; clear of wrath, Liv­ing too high for glad­ness, grief, or fear, That man I love! Who, dwelling qui­et-​eyed,[FN#25] Stain­less, serene, well-​bal­anced, un­per­plexed, Work­ing with Me, yet from all works de­tached, That man I love! Who, fixed in faith on Me, Dotes up­on none, scorns none; re­joic­es not, And grieves not, let­ting good or evil hap Light when it will, and when it will de­part, That man I love! Who, un­to friend and foe Keep­ing an equal heart, with equal mind Bears shame and glo­ry; with an equal peace Takes heat and cold, plea­sure and pain; abides Quit of de­sires, hears praise or calum­ny In pas­sion­less re­straint, un­moved by each; Linked by no ties to earth, stead­fast in Me, That man I love! But most of all I love Those hap­py ones to whom ’tis life to live In sin­gle fer­vid faith and love un­see­ing, Drink­ing the blessed Am­rit of my Be­ing!

HERE EN­DETH CHAP­TER XII. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Bhak­tiyog,” Or”The Book of the Re­li­gion of Faith.”

CHAP­TER XI­II

Ar­ju­na. Now would I hear, O gra­cious Ke­sa­va![FN#26] Of Life which seems, and Soul be­yond, which sees, And what it is we know-​or think to know.

Kr­ish­na. Yea! Son of Kun­ti! for this flesh ye see Is Kshetra, is the field where Life dis­ports; And that which views and knows it is the Soul, Kshetra­jna. In all “fields,” thou In­di­an prince! I am Kshetra­jna. I am what sur­veys! On­ly that knowl­edge knows which knows the known By the know­er![FN#27] What it is, that “field” of life, What qual­ities it hath, and whence it is, And why it changeth, and the fac­ul­ty That wot­teth it, the might­iness of this, And how it wot­teth-​hear these things from Me!

. . . . . . . . . . . .[FN#28]

The el­ements, the con­scious life, the mind, The un­seen vi­tal force, the nine strange gates Of the body, and the five do­mains of sense; De­sire, dis­like, plea­sure and pain, and thought Deep-​wo­ven, and per­sis­ten­cy of be­ing; These all are wrought on Mat­ter by the Soul!

Hum­ble­ness, truth­ful­ness, and harm­less­ness, Pa­tience and hon­our, rev­er­ence for the wise. Pu­ri­ty, con­stan­cy, con­trol of self, Con­tempt of sense-​de­lights, self-​sac­ri­fice, Per­cep­tion of the cer­ti­tude of ill In birth, death, age, dis­ease, suf­fer­ing, and sin; De­tach­ment, light­ly hold­ing un­to home, Chil­dren, and wife, and all that bindeth men; An ev­er-​tran­quil heart in for­tunes good And for­tunes evil, with a will set firm To wor­ship Me–Me on­ly! ceas­ing not; Lov­ing all soli­tudes, and shun­ning noise Of fool­ish crowds; en­deav­ours res­olute To reach per­cep­tion of the Ut­most Soul, And grace to un­der­stand what gain it were So to at­tain,–this is true Wis­dom, Prince! And what is oth­er­wise is ig­no­rance!

Now will I speak of knowl­edge best to know- That Truth which giveth man Am­rit to drink, The Truth of HIM, the Para-​Brahm, the All, The Un­cre­at­ed;; not Asat, not Sat, Not Form, nor the Un­formed; yet both, and more;– Whose hands are ev­ery­where, and ev­ery­where Plant­ed His feet, and ev­ery­where His eyes Be­hold­ing, and His ears in ev­ery place Hear­ing, and all His faces ev­ery­where En­light­en­ing and en­com­pass­ing His worlds. Glo­ri­fied in the sens­es He hath giv­en, Yet be­yond sense He is; sus­tain­ing all, Yet dwells He unattached: of forms and modes Mas­ter, yet nei­ther form nor mode hath He; He is with­in all be­ings–and with­out– Mo­tion­less, yet still mov­ing; not dis­cerned For sub­tle­ty of in­stant pres­ence; close To all, to each; yet mea­sure­less­ly far! Not man­ifold, and yet sub­sist­ing still In all which lives; for ev­er to be known As the Sus­tain­er, yet, at the End of Times, He maketh all to end–and re-​cre­ates. The Light of Lights He is, in the heart of the Dark Shin­ing eter­nal­ly. Wis­dom He is And Wis­dom’s way, and Guide of all the wise, Plant­ed in ev­ery heart.

So have I told Of Life’s stuff, and the mould­ing, and the lore To com­pre­hend. Whoso, ador­ing Me, Per­ceiveth this, shall sure­ly come to Me!

Know thou that Na­ture and the Spir­it both Have no be­gin­ning! Know that qual­ities And changes of them are by Na­ture wrought; That Na­ture puts to work the act­ing frame, But Spir­it doth in­form it, and so cause Feel­ing of pain and plea­sure. Spir­it, linked To mould­ed mat­ter, en­tereth in­to bond With qual­ities by Na­ture framed, and, thus Mar­ried to mat­ter, breeds the birth again In good or evil yo­nis.[FN#29]

Yet is this Yea! in its bod­ily prison!–Spir­it pure, Spir­it supreme; sur­vey­ing, gov­ern­ing, Guard­ing, pos­sess­ing; Lord and Mas­ter still PU­RUSHA, Ul­ti­mate, One Soul with Me.

Whoso thus knows him­self, and knows his soul PU­RUSHA, work­ing through the qual­ities With Na­ture’s modes, the light hath come for him! What­ev­er flesh he bears, nev­er again Shall he take on its load. Some few there be By med­ita­tion find the Soul in Self Self-​schooled; and some by long phi­los­ophy And holy life reach thith­er; some by works: Some, nev­er so at­tain­ing, hear of light From oth­er lips, and seize, and cleave to it Wor­ship­ping; yea! and those–to teach­ing true– Over­pass Death!

Wher­ev­er, In­di­an Prince! Life is–of mov­ing things, or things un­moved, Plant or still seed–know, what is there hath grown By bond of Mat­ter and of Spir­it: Know He sees in­deed who sees in all alike The liv­ing, lord­ly Soul; the Soul Supreme, Im­per­ish­able amid the Per­ish­ing: For, whoso thus be­holds, in ev­ery place, In ev­ery form, the same, one, Liv­ing Life, Doth no more wrong­ful­ness un­to him­self, But goes the high­est road which brings to bliss. See­ing, he sees, in­deed, who sees that works Are Na­ture’s wont, for Soul to prac­tise by Act­ing, yet not the agent; sees the mass Of sep­arate liv­ing things–each of its kind– Is­sue from One, and blend again to One: Then hath he BRAH­MA, he at­tains!

O Prince! That Ul­ti­mate, High Spir­it, Un­cre­ate, Un­qual­ified, even when it en­tereth flesh Taketh no stain of acts, wor­keth in nought! Like to th” ethe­re­al air, per­vad­ing all, Which, for sheer sub­tle­ty, avoideth taint, The sub­tle Soul sits ev­ery­where, un­stained: Like to the light of the all-​pierc­ing sun [Which is not changed by aught it shines up­on,] The Soul’s light shineth pure in ev­ery place; And they who, by such eye of wis­dom, see How Mat­ter, and what deals with it, di­vide; And how the Spir­it and the flesh have strife, Those wise ones go the way which leads to Life!

HERE ENDS CHAP­TER XI­II. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Kshetrak­shetra­jnav­ib­ha­gayog,” Or “The Book of Re­li­gion by Sep­ara­tion of Mat­ter and Spir­it.”

CHAP­TER XIV

Kr­ish­na. Yet far­ther will I open un­to thee This wis­dom of all wis­doms, ut­ter­most, The which pos­sess­ing, all My saints have passed To per­fect­ness. On such high ver­ities Re­liant, ris­ing in­to fel­low­ship With Me, they are not born again at birth Of Kalpas, nor at Pralyas suf­fer change!

This Uni­verse the womb is where I plant Seed of all lives! Thence, Prince of In­dia, comes Birth to all be­ings! Whoso, Kun­ti’s Son! Moth­ers each mor­tal form, Brah­ma con­ceives, And I am He that fa­thers, send­ing seed!

Sattwan, Ra­jas, and Tamas, so are named The qual­ities of Na­ture, “Sooth­fast­ness,” “Pas­sion,” and “Ig­no­rance.” These three bind down The change­less Spir­it in the change­ful flesh. Where­of sweet “Sooth­fast­ness,” by pu­ri­ty Liv­ing un­sul­lied and en­light­ened, binds The sin­less Soul to hap­pi­ness and truth; And Pas­sion, be­ing kin to ap­petite, And breed­ing im­pulse and propen­si­ty, Binds the em­bod­ied Soul, O Kun­ti’s Son! By tie of works. But Ig­no­rance, be­got Of Dark­ness, blind­ing mor­tal men, binds down Their souls to stu­por, sloth, and drowsi­ness. Yea, Prince of In­dia! Sooth­fast­ness binds souls In pleas­ant wise to flesh; and Pas­sion binds By toil­some strain; but Ig­no­rance, which blots The beams of wis­dom, binds the soul to sloth. Pas­sion and Ig­no­rance, once over­come, Leave Sooth­fast­ness, O Bhara­ta! Where this With Ig­no­rance are ab­sent, Pas­sion rules; And Ig­no­rance in hearts not good nor quick. When at all gate­ways of the Body shines The Lamp of Knowl­edge, then may one see well Sooth­fast­ness set­tled in that city reigns; Where long­ing is, and ar­dour, and un­rest, Im­pulse to strive and gain, and avarice, Those spring from Pas­sion–Prince!–en­grained; and where Dark­ness and dul­ness, sloth and stu­por are, ‘Tis Ig­no­rance hath caused them, Ku­ru Chief!

More­over, when a soul de­parteth, fixed In Sooth­fast­ness, it goeth to the place– Per­fect and pure–of those that know all Truth. If it de­parteth in set habi­tude Of Im­pulse, it shall pass in­to the world Of spir­its tied to works; and, if it dies In hard­ened Ig­no­rance, that blind­ed soul Is born anew in some un­light­ed womb.

The fruit of Sooth­fast­ness is true and sweet; The fruit of lusts is pain and toil; the fruit Of Ig­no­rance is deep­er dark­ness. Yea! For Light brings light, and Pas­sion ache to have; And gloom, be­wil­der­ments, and ig­no­rance Grow forth from Ig­no­rance. Those of the first Rise ev­er high­er; those of the sec­ond mode Take a mid place; the dark­ened souls sink back To low­er deeps, load­ed with wit­less­ness!

When, watch­ing life, the liv­ing man per­ceives The on­ly ac­tors are the Qual­ities, And knows what rules be­yond the Qual­ities, Then is he come nigh un­to Me!

The Soul, Thus pass­ing forth from the Three Qual­ities– Where­by arise all bod­ies–over­comes Birth, Death, Sor­row, and Age; and drin­keth deep The undy­ing wine of Am­rit.

Ar­ju­na. Oh, my Lord! Which be the signs to know him that hath gone Past the Three Modes? How liveth he? What way Lead­eth him safe be­yond the three­fold Modes?

Kr­ish­na. He who with equa­nim­ity sur­veys Lus­tre of good­ness, strife of pas­sion, sloth Of ig­no­rance, not an­gry if they are, Not wish­ful when they are not: he who sits A so­journ­er and stranger in their midst Un­ruf­fled, stand­ing off, say­ing–serene– When trou­bles break, “These be the Qual­ities!” He un­to whom–self-​cen­tred–grief and joy Sound as one word; to whose deep-​see­ing eyes The clod, the mar­ble, and the gold are one; Whose equal heart holds the same gen­tle­ness For love­ly and unlove­ly things, firm-​set, Well-​pleased in praise and dis­praise; sat­is­fied With hon­our or dis­hon­our; un­to friends And un­to foes alike in tol­er­ance; De­tached from un­der­tak­ings,–he is named Sur­mounter of the Qual­ities!

And such– With sin­gle, fer­vent faith ador­ing Me, Pass­ing be­yond the Qual­ities, con­forms To Brah­ma, and at­tains Me!

For I am That where­of Brah­ma is the like­ness! Mine The Am­rit is; and Im­mor­tal­ity Is mine; and mine per­fect Fe­lic­ity!

HERE ENDS CHAP­TER XIV. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA En­ti­tled “Gu­na­trayav­ib­ha­gayog,” Or “The Book of Re­li­gion by Sep­ara­tion from the Qual­ities.”

CHAP­TER XV

Kr­ish­na. Men call the Aswattha,–the Banyan-​tree,– Which hath its boughs be­neath, its roots above,– The ev­er-​holy tree. Yea! for its leaves Are green and wav­ing hymns which whis­per Truth! Who knows the Aswattha, knows Veds, and all.

Its branch­es shoot to heav­en and sink to earth,[FN#30] Even as the deeds of men, which take their birth From qual­ities: its sil­ver sprays and blooms, And all the ea­ger ver­dure of its girth, Leap to quick life at kiss of sun and air, As men’s lives quick­en to the tempt­ings fair Of woo­ing sense: its hang­ing rootlets seek The soil be­neath, help­ing to hold it there,

As ac­tions wrought amid this world of men Bind them by ev­er-​tight­en­ing bonds again. If ye knew well the teach­ing of the Tree, What its shape saith; and whence it springs; and, then

How it must end, and all the ills of it, The axe of sharp De­tach­ment ye would whet, And cleave the cling­ing snaky roots, and lay This Aswattha of sense-​life low,–to set

New growths up­spring­ing to that hap­pi­er sky,– Which they who reach shall have no day to die, Nor fade away, nor fall–to Him, I mean, FA­THER and FIRST, Who made the mys­tery

Of old Cre­ation; for to Him come they From pas­sion and from dreams who break away; Who part the bonds con­strain­ing them to flesh, And,–Him, the High­est, wor­ship­ping al­way–

No longer grow at mer­cy of what breeze Of sum­mer plea­sure stirs the sleep­ing trees, What blast of tem­pest tears them, bough and stem To the eter­nal world pass such as these!

An­oth­er Sun gleams there! an­oth­er Moon! An­oth­er Light,–not Dusk, nor Dawn, nor Noon– Which they who once be­hold re­turn no more; They have at­tained My rest, life’s Ut­most boon!

When, in this world of man­ifest­ed life, The undy­ing Spir­it, set­ting forth from Me, Taketh on form, it draweth to it­self From Be­ing’s store­house,–which con­taineth all,– Sens­es and in­tel­lect. The Sovereign Soul Thus en­ter­ing the flesh, or quit­ting it, Gath­ers these up, as the wind gath­ers scents, Blow­ing above the flow­er-​beds. Ear and Eye, And Touch and Taste, and Smelling, these it takes,– Yea, and a sen­tient mind;–link­ing it­self To sense-​things so.

The un­en­light­ened ones Mark not that Spir­it when he goes or comes, Nor when he takes his plea­sure in the form, Con­joined with qual­ities; but those see plain Who have the eyes to see. Holy souls see Which strive there­to. En­light­ened, they per­ceive That Spir­it in them­selves; but fool­ish ones, Even though they strive, dis­cern not, hav­ing hearts Un­kin­dled, ill-​in­formed!

Know, too, from Me Shineth the gath­ered glo­ry of the suns Which light­en all the world: from Me the moons Draw sil­very beams, and fire fierce love­li­ness. I pen­etrate the clay, and lend all shapes Their liv­ing force; I glide in­to the plant– Root, leaf, and bloom–to make the wood­lands green With spring­ing sap. Be­com­ing vi­tal warmth, I glow in glad, respir­ing frames, and pass, With out­ward and with in­ward breath, to feed The body by all meats.[FN#31]

For in this world Be­ing is twofold: the Di­vid­ed, one; The Un­di­vid­ed, one. All things that live Are “the Di­vid­ed.” That which sits apart, “The Un­di­vid­ed.”

High­er still is He, The High­est, hold­ing all, whose Name is LORD, The Eter­nal, Sovereign, First! Who fills all worlds, Sus­tain­ing them. And–dwelling thus be­yond Di­vid­ed Be­ing and Un­di­vid­ed–I Am called of men and Vedas, Life Supreme, The PU­RUSHOT­TA­MA.

Who knows Me thus, With mind un­cloud­ed, knoweth all, dear Prince! And with his whole soul ev­er wor­ship­peth Me.

Now is the sa­cred, se­cret Mys­tery De­clared to thee! Who com­pre­hen­deth this Hath wis­dom! He is quit of works in bliss!

HERE ENDS CHAP­TER XV. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA En­ti­tled “Pu­rushot­tamaprap­tiyog,” Or “The Book of Re­li­gion by at­tain­ing the Supreme.”

CHAP­TER XVI

Kr­ish­na. Fear­less­ness, sin­gle­ness of soul, the will Al­ways to strive for wis­dom; opened hand And gov­erned ap­petites; and piety, And love of lone­ly study; hum­ble­ness, Up­right­ness, heed to in­jure nought which lives, Truth­ful­ness, slow­ness un­to wrath, a mind That light­ly let­teth go what oth­ers prize; And equa­nim­ity, and char­ity Which spi­eth no man’s faults; and ten­der­ness To­wards all that suf­fer; a con­tent­ed heart, Flut­tered by no de­sires; a bear­ing mild, Mod­est, and grave, with man­hood nobly mixed, With pa­tience, for­ti­tude, and pu­ri­ty; An un­re­venge­ful spir­it, nev­er giv­en To rate it­self too high;–such be the signs, O In­di­an Prince! of him whose feet are set On that fair path which leads to heav­en­ly birth!

De­ceit­ful­ness, and ar­ro­gance, and pride, Quick­ness to anger, harsh and evil speech, And ig­no­rance, to its own dark­ness blind,– These be the signs, My Prince! of him whose birth Is fat­ed for the re­gions of the vile.[FN#32]

The Heav­en­ly Birth brings to de­liv­er­ance, So should’st thou know! The birth with Asur­as Brings in­to bondage. Be thou joy­ous, Prince! Whose lot is set apart for heav­en­ly Birth.

Two stamps there are marked on all liv­ing men, Di­vine and Un­di­vine; I spake to thee By what marks thou shouldst know the Heav­en­ly Man, Hear from me now of the Un­heav­en­ly!

They com­pre­hend not, the Un­heav­en­ly, How Souls go forth from Me; nor how they come Back un­to Me: nor is there Truth in these, Nor pu­ri­ty, nor rule of Life. “This world Hath not a Law, nor Or­der, nor a Lord,” So say they: “nor hath risen up by Cause Fol­low­ing on Cause, in per­fect pur­pos­ing, But is none oth­er than a House of Lust.” And, this thing think­ing, all those ru­ined ones– Of lit­tle wit, dark-​mind­ed–give them­selves To evil deeds, the curs­es of their kind. Sur­ren­dered to de­sires in­sa­tiable, Full of de­ceit­ful­ness, fol­ly, and pride, In blind­ness cleav­ing to their er­rors, caught In­to the sin­ful course, they trust this lie As it were true–this lie which leads to death– Find­ing in Plea­sure all the good which is, And cry­ing “Here it fin­isheth!”

En­snared In noos­es of a hun­dred idle hopes, Slaves to their pas­sion and their wrath, they buy Wealth with base deeds, to glut hot ap­petites; “Thus much, to-​day,” they say, “we gained! there­by Such and such wish of heart shall have its fill; And this is ours! and th’ oth­er shall be ours! To-​day we slew a foe, and we will slay Our oth­er en­emy to-​mor­row! Look! Are we not lords? Make we not good­ly cheer? Is not our for­tune fa­mous, brave, and great? Rich are we, proud­ly born! What oth­er men Live like to us? Kill, then, for sac­ri­fice! Cast largesse, and be mer­ry!” So they speak Dark­ened by ig­no­rance; and so they fall– Tossed to and fro with projects, tricked, and bound In net of black delu­sion, lost in lusts– Down to foul Nara­ka. Con­ceit­ed, fond, Stub­born and proud, dead-​drunk­en with the wine Of wealth, and reck­less, all their of­fer­ings Have but a show of rev­er­ence, be­ing not made In piety of an­cient faith. Thus vowed To self-​hood, force, in­so­lence, feast­ing, wrath, These My blas­phe­mers, in the forms they wear And in the forms they breed, my foe­men are, Hate­ful and hat­ing; cru­el, evil, vile, Low­est and least of men, whom I cast down Again, and yet again, at end of lives, In­to some dev­il­ish womb, whence–birth by birth– The dev­il­ish wombs re-​spawn them, all be­guiled; And, till they find and wor­ship Me, sweet Prince! Tread they that Nether Road.

The Doors of Hell Are three­fold, where­by men to ru­in pass,– The door of Lust, the door of Wrath, the door Of Avarice. Let a man shun those three! He who shall turn aside from en­ter­ing All those three gates of Narak, wen­deth straight To find his peace, and comes to Swar­ga’s gate.

. . . . . . . . . . . .[FN#33]

HERE EN­DETH CHAP­TER XVI. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Daivasarasaupad­wib­ha­gayog,” Or “The Book of the Sep­arate­ness of the Di­vine and Un­di­vine.”

CHAP­TER XVII

Ar­ju­na. If men for­sake the holy or­di­nance, Heed­less of Shas­tras, yet keep faith at heart And wor­ship, what shall be the state of those, Great Kr­ish­na! Sattwan, Ra­jas, Tamas? Say!

Kr­ish­na. Three­fold the faith is of mankind and springs From those three qual­ities,–be­com­ing “true,” Or “pas­sion-​stained,” or “dark,” as thou shalt hear!

The faith of each be­liev­er, In­di­an Prince! Con­forms it­self to what he tru­ly is. Where thou shalt see a wor­ship­per, that one To what he wor­ships lives as­sim­ilate, [Such as the shrine, so is the votary,] The “sooth­fast” souls adore true gods; the souls Obey­ing Ra­jas wor­ship Rak­shasas[FN#34] Or Yak­shas; and the men of Dark­ness pray To Pre­tas and to Bhutas.[FN#35] Yea, and those Who prac­tise bit­ter penance, not en­joined By right­ful rule–penance which hath its root In self-​suf­fi­cient, proud hypocrisies– Those men, pas­sion-​be­set, vi­olent, wild, Tor­tur­ing–the wit­less ones–My el­ements Shut in fair com­pa­ny with­in their flesh, (Nay, Me my­self, present with­in the flesh!) Know them to dev­ils de­vot­ed, not to Heav­en! For like as foods are three­fold for mankind In nour­ish­ing, so is there three­fold way Of wor­ship, ab­sti­nence, and alms­giv­ing! Hear this of Me! there is a food which brings Force, sub­stance, strength, and health, and joy to live, Be­ing well-​sea­soned, cor­dial, com­fort­ing, The “Sooth­fast” meat. And there be foods which bring Aches and un­rests, and burn­ing blood, and grief, Be­ing too bit­ing, heat­ing, salt, and sharp, And there­fore craved by too strong ap­petite. And there is foul food–kept from over-​night,[FN#36] Savour­less, filthy, which the foul will eat, A feast of rot­ten­ness, meet for the lips Of such as love the “Dark­ness.”

Thus with rites;– A sac­ri­fice not for re­ward­ment made, Of­fered in right­ful wise, when he who vows Sayeth, with heart de­vout, “This I should do!” Is “Sooth­fast” rite. But sac­ri­fice for gain, Of­fered for good re­pute, be sure that this, O Best of Bharatas! is Ra­jas-​rite, With stamp of “pas­sion.” And a sac­ri­fice Of­fered against the laws, with no due dole Of food-​giv­ing, with no ac­com­pa­ni­ment Of hal­lowed hymn, nor largesse to the priests, In faith­less cel­ebra­tion, call it vile, The deed of “Dark­ness!”–lost!

Wor­ship of gods Mer­it­ing wor­ship; low­ly rev­er­ence Of Twice-​borns, Teach­ers, El­ders; Pu­ri­ty, Rec­ti­tude, and the Brah­macharya’s vow, And not to in­jure any help­less thing,– These make a true re­li­gious­ness of Act.

Words caus­ing no man woe, words ev­er true, Gen­tle and pleas­ing words, and those ye say In mur­mured read­ing of a Sa­cred Writ,– These make the true re­li­gious­ness of Speech.

Seren­ity of soul, be­nig­ni­ty, Sway of the silent Spir­it, con­stant stress To sanc­ti­fy the Na­ture,–these things make Good rite, and true re­li­gious­ness of Mind.

Such three­fold faith, in high­est piety Kept, with no hope of gain, by hearts de­vote, Is per­fect work of Sattwan, true be­lief.

Re­li­gion shown in act of proud dis­play To win good en­ter­tain­ment, wor­ship, fame, Such–say I–is of Ra­jas, rash and vain.

Re­li­gion fol­lowed by a wit­less will To tor­ture self, or come at pow­er to hurt An­oth­er,–’tis of Tamas, dark and ill.

The gift lov­ing­ly giv­en, when one shall say “Now must I glad­ly give!” when he who takes Can ren­der noth­ing back; made in due place, Due time, and to a meet re­cip­ient, Is gift of Sattwan, fair and prof­itable.

The gift self­ish­ly giv­en, where to re­ceive Is hoped again, or when some end is sought, Or where the gift is prof­fered with a grudge, This is of Ra­jas, stained with im­pulse, ill.

The gift churl­ish­ly flung, at evil time, In wrong­ful place, to base re­cip­ient, Made in dis­dain or harsh un­kind­li­ness, Is gift of Tamas, dark; it doth not bless![FN#37]

HERE EN­DETH CHAP­TER XVII. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Srad­dha­trayav­ib­ha­gayog,” Or “The Book of Re­li­gion by the Three­fold Kinds of Faith.”

CHAP­TER XVI­II

Ar­ju­na. Fain would I bet­ter know, Thou Glo­ri­ous One! The very truth–Heart’s Lord!–of San­nyas, Ab­sten­tion; and enun­ci­ation, Lord! Tya­ga; and what sep­arates these twain!

Kr­ish­na. The po­ets right­ly teach that San­nyas Is the fore­go­ing of all acts which spring Out of de­sire; and their wis­est say Tya­ga is re­nounc­ing fruit of acts.

There be among the saints some who have held All ac­tion sin­ful, and to be re­nounced; And some who an­swer, “Nay! the good­ly acts– As wor­ship, penance, alms–must be per­formed!” Hear now My sen­tence, Best of Bharatas!

‘Tis well set forth, O Chas­er of thy Foes! Re­nun­ci­ation is of three­fold form, And Wor­ship, Penance, Alms, not to be stayed; Nay, to be glad­ly done; for all those three Are pu­ri­fy­ing wa­ters for true souls!

Yet must be prac­tised even those high works In yield­ing up at­tach­ment, and all fruit Pro­duced by works. This is My judg­ment, Prince! This My in­su­per­able and fixed de­cree!

Ab­stain­ing from a work by right pre­scribed Nev­er is meet! So to ab­stain doth spring From “Dark­ness,” and Delu­sion tea­cheth it. Ab­stain­ing from a work grievous to flesh, When one saith “‘Tisun­pleas­ing!” this is null! Such an one acts from “pas­sion;” nought of gain Wins his Re­nun­ci­ation! But, Ar­jun! Ab­stain­ing from at­tach­ment to the work, Ab­stain­ing from re­ward­ment in the work, While yet one doeth it full faith­ful­ly, Say­ing, “Tis right to do!” that is “true ” act And ab­sti­nence! Who doeth du­ties so, Un­vexed if his work fail, if it suc­ceed Un­flat­tered, in his own heart jus­ti­fied, Quit of de­bates and doubts, his is “true” act: For, be­ing in the body, none may stand Whol­ly aloof from act; yet, who ab­stains From prof­it of his acts is ab­sti­nent.

The fruit of labours, in the lives to come, Is three­fold for all men,–De­sir­able, And Un­de­sir­able, and mixed of both; But no fruit is at all where no work was.

Hear from me, Long-​armed Lord! the mak­ings five Which go to ev­ery act, in Sankhya taught As nec­es­sary. First the force; and then The agent; next, the var­ious in­stru­ments; Fourth, the es­pe­cial ef­fort; fifth, the God. What work so­ev­er any mor­tal doth Of body, mind, or speech, evil or good, By these five doth he that. Which be­ing thus, Whoso, for lack of knowl­edge, seeth him­self As the sole ac­tor, knoweth nought at all And seeth nought. There­fore, I say, if one– Hold­ing aloof from self–with un­stained mind Should slay all yon­der host, be­ing bid to slay, He doth not slay; he is not bound there­by!

Knowl­edge, the thing known, and the mind which knows, These make the three­fold start­ing-​ground of act. The act, the ac­tor, and the in­stru­ment, These make the three­fold to­tal of the deed. But knowl­edge, agent, act, are dif­fer­enced By three di­vid­ing qual­ities. Hear now Which be the qual­ities di­vid­ing them.

There is “true” Knowl­edge. Learn thou it is this: To see one change­less Life in all the Lives, And in the Sep­arate, One In­sep­ara­ble. There is im­per­fect Knowl­edge: that which sees The sep­arate ex­is­tences apart, And, be­ing sep­arat­ed, holds them re­al. There is false Knowl­edge: that which blind­ly clings To one as if ’twere all, seek­ing no Cause, De­prived of light, nar­row, and dull, and “dark.”

There is “right” Ac­tion: that which be­ing en­joined– Is wrought with­out at­tach­ment, pas­sion­less­ly, For du­ty, not for love, nor hate, nor gain. There is “vain” Ac­tion: that which men pur­sue Aching to sat­is­fy de­sires, im­pelled By sense of self, with all-​ab­sorb­ing stress: This is of Ra­jas–pas­sion­ate and vain. There is “dark” Ac­tion: when one doth a thing Heed­less of is­sues, heed­less of the hurt Or wrong for oth­ers, heed­less if he harm His own soul–’tis of Tamas, black and bad!

There is the “right­ful”do­er. He who acts Free from self-​seek­ing, hum­ble, res­olute, Stead­fast, in good or evil hap the same, Con­tent to do aright-​he “tru­ly” acts. There is th’ “im­pas­sioned” do­er. He that works From im­pulse, seek­ing prof­it, rude and bold To over­come, un­chas­tened; slave by turns Of sor­row and of joy: of Ra­jas he! And there be evil do­ers; loose of heart, Low-​mind­ed, stub­born, fraud­ulent, re­miss, Dull, slow, de­spon­dent–chil­dren of the “dark.”

Hear, too, of In­tel­lect and Stead­fast­ness The three­fold sep­ara­tion, Con­queror-​Prince! How these are set apart by Qual­ities.

Good is the In­tel­lect which com­pre­hends The com­ing forth and go­ing back of life, What must be done, and what must not be done, What should be feared, and what should not be feared, What binds and what eman­ci­pates the soul: That is of Sattwan, Prince! of “sooth­fast­ness.” Marred is the In­tel­lect which, know­ing right And know­ing wrong, and what is well to do And what must not be done, yet un­der­stands Nought with firm mind, nor as the calm truth is: This is of Ra­jas, Prince! and “pas­sion­ate!” Evil is In­tel­lect which, wrapped in gloom, Looks up­on wrong as right, and sees all things Con­trari­wise of Truth. O Pritha’s Son! That is of Tamas, “dark” and des­per­ate!

Good is the stead­fast­ness where­by a man Mas­ters his beats of heart, his very breath Of life, the ac­tion of his sens­es; fixed In nev­er-​shak­en faith and piety: That is of Sattwan, Prince! “sooth­fast” and fair! Stained is the stead­fast­ness where­by a man Holds to his du­ty, pur­pose, ef­fort, end, For life’s sake, and the love of goods to gain, Ar­ju­na! ’tis of Ra­jas, pas­sion-​stamped! Sad is the stead­fast­ness where­with the fool Cleaves to his sloth, his sor­row, and his fears, His fol­ly and de­spair. This–Pritha’s Son!– Is born of Tamas, “dark” and mis­er­able!

Hear fur­ther, Chief of Bharatas! from Me The three­fold kinds of Plea­sure which there be.

Good Plea­sure is the plea­sure that en­dures, Ban­ish­ing pain for aye; bit­ter at first As poi­son to the soul, but af­ter­ward Sweet as the taste of Am­rit. Drink of that! It springeth in the Spir­it’s deep con­tent. And painful Plea­sure springeth from the bond Be­tween the sens­es and the sense-​world. Sweet As Am­rit is its first taste, but its last Bit­ter as poi­son. ‘Tis of Ra­jas, Prince! And foul and “dark” the Plea­sure is which springs From sloth and sin and fool­ish­ness; at first And at the last, and all the way of life The soul be­wil­der­ing. ‘Tis of Tamas, Prince!

For noth­ing lives on earth, nor ‘midst the gods In ut­most heav­en, but hath its be­ing bound With these three Qual­ities, by Na­ture framed.

The work of Brah­mans, Ksha­triyas, Vaisyas, And Su­dras, O thou Slay­er of thy Foes! Is fixed by rea­son of the Qual­ities Plant­ed in each:

A Brah­man’s virtues, Prince! Born of his na­ture, are seren­ity, Self-​mas­tery, re­li­gion, pu­ri­ty, Pa­tience, up­right­ness, learn­ing, and to know The truth of things which be. A Ksha­triya’s pride, Born of his na­ture, lives in val­our, fire, Con­stan­cy, skil­ful­ness, spir­it in fight, And open-​hand­ed­ness and no­ble mien, As of a lord of men. A Vaisya’s task, Born with his na­ture, is to till the ground, Tend cat­tle, ven­ture trade. A Su­dra’s state, Suit­ing his na­ture, is to min­is­ter.

Whoso per­formeth–dili­gent, con­tent– The work al­lot­ted him, whate’er it be, Lays hold of per­fect­ness! Hear how a man Find­eth per­fec­tion, be­ing so con­tent: He find­eth it through wor­ship–wrought by work– Of Him that is the Source of all which lives, Of HIM by Whom the uni­verse was stretched.

Bet­ter thine own work is, though done with fault, Than do­ing oth­ers’ work, ev’n ex­cel­lent­ly. He shall not fall in sin who fronts the task Set him by Na­ture’s hand! Let no man leave His nat­ural du­ty, Prince! though it bear blame! For ev­ery work hath blame, as ev­ery flame Is wrapped in smoke! On­ly that man at­tains Per­fect surcease of work whose work was wrought With mind un­fet­tered, soul whol­ly sub­dued, De­sires for ev­er dead, re­sults re­nounced.

Learn from me, Son of Kun­ti! al­so this, How one, at­tain­ing per­fect peace, at­tains BRAHM, the supreme, the high­est height of all!

De­vot­ed–with a heart grown pure, re­strained In lord­ly self-​con­trol, for­go­ing wiles Of song and sens­es, freed from love and hate, Dwelling ‘mid soli­tudes, in di­et spare, With body, speech, and will tamed to obey, Ev­er to holy med­ita­tion vowed, From pas­sions lib­er­ate, quit of the Self, Of ar­ro­gance, im­pa­tience, anger, pride; Freed from sur­round­ings, qui­et, lack­ing nought– Such an one grows to one­ness with the BRAHM; Such an one, grow­ing one with BRAHM, serene, Sor­rows no more, de­sires no more; his soul, Equal­ly lov­ing all that lives, loves well Me, Who have made them, and at­tains to Me. By this same love and wor­ship doth he know Me as I am, how high and won­der­ful, And know­ing, straight­way en­ters in­to Me. And what­so­ev­er deeds he doeth–fixed In Me, as in his refuge–he hath won For ev­er and for ev­er by My grace Th’ Eter­nal Rest! So win thou! In thy thoughts Do all thou dost for Me! Re­nounce for Me! Sac­ri­fice heart and mind and will to Me! Live in the faith of Me! In faith of Me All dan­gers thou shalt van­quish, by My grace; But, trust­ing to thy­self and heed­ing not, Thou can’st but per­ish! If this day thou say’st, Re­ly­ing on thy­self, “I will not fight!” Vain will the pur­pose prove! thy qual­ities Would spur thee to the war. What thou dost shun, Mis­led by fair il­lu­sions, thou wouldst seek Against thy will, when the task comes to thee Wak­ing the prompt­ings in thy na­ture set. There lives a Mas­ter in the hearts of men Maketh their deeds, by sub­tle pulling–strings, Dance to what tune HE will. With all thy soul Trust Him, and take Him for thy suc­cour, Prince! So–on­ly so, Ar­ju­na!–shalt thou gain– By grace of Him–the ut­ter­most re­pose, The Eter­nal Place!

Thus hath been opened thee This Truth of Truths, the Mys­tery more hid Than any se­cret mys­tery. Med­itate! And–as thou wilt–then act!

Nay! but once more Take My last word, My ut­most mean­ing have! Pre­cious thou art to Me; right well-​beloved! Lis­ten! I tell thee for thy com­fort this. Give Me thy heart! adore Me! serve Me! cling In faith and love and rev­er­ence to Me! So shalt thou come to Me! I promise true, For thou art sweet to Me!

And let go those– Rites and writ du­ties! Fly to Me alone! Make Me thy sin­gle refuge! I will free Thy soul from all its sins! Be of good cheer!

[Hide, the holy Kr­ish­na saith, This from him that hath no faith, Him that wor­ships not, nor seeks Wis­dom’s teach­ing when she speaks: Hide it from all men who mock; But, wher­ev­er, ‘mid the flock Of My lovers, one shall teach This di­vinest, wis­est, speech– Teach­ing in the faith to bring Truth to them, and of­fer­ing Of all hon­our un­to Me– Un­to Brah­ma cometh he! Nay, and nowhere shall ye find Any man of all mankind Do­ing dear­er deed for Me; Nor shall any dear­er be In My earth. Yea, fur­ther­more, Whoso reads this con­verse o’er, Held by Us up­on the plain, Pon­der­ing pi­ous­ly and fain, He hath paid Me sac­ri­fice! (Kr­ish­na speaketh in this wise!) Yea, and whoso, full of faith, Heareth wise­ly what it saith, Heareth meek­ly,–when he dies, Sure­ly shall his spir­it rise To those re­gions where the Blest, Free of flesh, in joy­ance rest.]

Hath this been heard by thee, O In­di­an Prince! With mind in­tent? hath all the ig­no­rance– Which bred thy trou­ble–van­ished, My Ar­jun?

Ar­ju­na. Trou­ble and ig­no­rance are gone! the Light Hath come un­to me, by Thy favour, Lord! Now am I fixed! my doubt is fled away! Ac­cord­ing to Thy word, so will I do!

San­jaya. Thus gath­ered I the gra­cious speech of Kr­ish­na, O my King! Thus have I told, with heart a-​thrill, this wise and won­drous thing By great Vyasa’s learn­ing writ, how Kr­ish­na’s self made known The Yo­ga, be­ing Yo­ga’s Lord. So is the high truth shown! And aye, when I re­mem­ber, O Lord my King, again Ar­ju­na and the God in talk, and all this holy strain, Great is my glad­ness: when I muse that splen­dour, pass­ing speech, Of Hari, vis­ible and plain, there is no tongue to reach My mar­vel and my love and bliss. O Archer-​Prince! all hail! O Kr­ish­na, Lord of Yo­ga! sure­ly there shall not fail Bless­ing, and vic­to­ry, and pow­er, for Thy most mighty sake, Where this song comes of Ar­jun, and how with God he spake.

HERE ENDS, WITH CHAP­TER XVI­II., En­ti­tled “Mok­shasanyasayog,” Or “The Book of Re­li­gion by De­liv­er­ance and Re­nun­ci­ation,” THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA.

[FN#1] Some rep­eti­tionary lines are here omit­ted. [FN#2] Tech­ni­cal phras­es of Vedic re­li­gion. [FN#3] The whole of this pas­sage is high­ly in­volved and dif­fi­cult to ren­der. [FN#4] I feel con­vinced sankhyanan and yo­gi­nan must be trans­posed here in sense. [FN#5] I am doubt­ful of ac­cu­ra­cy here. [FN#6] A name of the sun. [FN#7] With­out de­sire of fruit. [FN#8] That is,”joy and sor­row, suc­cess and fail­ure, heat and cold,”&c. [FN#9] i.e., the body. [FN#10] The San­skrit has this play on the dou­ble mean­ing of At­man. [FN#11] So in orig­inal. [FN#12] Be­ings of low and dev­il­ish na­ture. [FN#13] Kr­ish­na. [FN#14] I read here jan­ma, “birth;” not jara,”age” [FN#15] I have dis­card­ed ten lines of San­skrit text here as an un­doubt­ed in­ter­po­la­tion by some Vedan­tist [FN#16] The San­skrit po­em here ris­es to an el­eva­tion of style and man­ner which I have en­deav­oured to mark by change of me­tre. [FN#17] Ahin­sa. [FN#18] The nec­tar of im­mor­tal­ity. [FN#19] Called “The Jap.” [FN#20] The com­pound form of San­skrit words. [FN#21] “Ka­mala­pa­trak­sha” [FN#22] These are all di­vine or de­ified or­ders of the Hin­doo Pan­theon. [FN#23] “Hail to Thee, God of Gods! Be favourable!” [FN#24] The wind. [FN#25] “Not peer­ing about,”anapeksha. [FN#26] The Cal­cut­ta edi­tion of the Ma­hab­hara­ta has these three open­ing lines. [FN#27] This is the near­est pos­si­ble ver­sion of Kshetrak­shetra­jnay­oj­nanan yat taj­nan matan ma­ma. [FN#28] I omit two lines of the San­skrit here, ev­ident­ly in­ter­po­lat­ed by some Vedan­tist. [FN#29] Wombs. [FN#30] I do not con­sid­er the San­skrit vers­es here-​which are some­what freely ren­dered–“an at­tack on the au­thor­ity of the Vedas,” with Mr Davies, but a beau­ti­ful lyri­cal episode, a new “Para­ble of the fig-​tree.” [FN#31] I omit a verse here, ev­ident­ly in­ter­po­lat­ed. [FN#32] “Of the Asur­as,”lit. [FN#33] I omit the ten con­clud­ing shlokas, with Mr Davis. [FN#34] Rak­shasas and Yak­shas are un­em­bod­ied but capri­cious be­ings of great pow­er, gifts, and beau­ty, same times al­so of be­nig­ni­ty. [FN#35] These are spir­its of evil wan­der­ing ghosts. [FN#36] Yataya­man, food which has re­mained af­ter the watch­es of the night. In In­dia this would prob­ably “go bad.” [FN#37] I omit the con­clud­ing shlokas, as of very doubt­ful au­then­tic­ity.