Chú Thích
(1) Vương xá (Rajagriha): Kinh đô nước Ma-kiệt-đề (Magatha). Vua Tần-bà-la-sa (Bimbasâra) trị vì ở đó hồi đức Phật ra đời.Thuở ấy, tại Ấn-độ thành Vương xá là oai vinh hơn hết, vì vua Tần-bà-sa-la là chúa tể ở Ấn Độ.
(2) Bai-ba-ra (Baihâra).
(3) Bi-bu-la (Bipoula).
(4) Ta-bô-hoăng (Topovan).
(5) Sái-la-ri (Sailâgiri).
(6) Rát-na-di-ri (Ratnagiri).
(7) Tỳ-kheo (bhikchou,bhiksou) : những người phát nguyện cử kiêng ba mục đích của người đời : vui sướng, giầu sang, tình ái. Tu trì đạo lý; dứt bỏ lòng ham muốn, lòng lo sợ, tánh tự cao.
(8) Du-chỉ (Yoghis) : Những thầy tu luyện Du-già là các phương pháp để đạt trí huệ, bỏ ảnh hưởng của vật chất đối với tâm linh, dứt trừ bản ngã.
(9) Phạm-chí (brahmacharis): thầy tu khổ hạnh phái Bà-la-môn.
(10) Móng tay đâm thủng ngang lòng bàn tay mà trổ ra ngoài.
(11) Tô-la (Tôla) : Cân lường Ấn độ, nặng bằng một ru-pi (roupie) tức tám grammes.
(12) Xô-ná (Sona).
(13) Mấy thầy Bà-la-môn mặc lễ phục trắng.
(14) Ba thì : Quá khứ, Hiện-tại, Vị-lai.
(15) La-môn, tức Bà-la-môn (Brahmane), người đạo Bà-la-môn trong chủng tánh Bà la-môn.
(16) Đa-lít (Dâlidd).
(17) Muôn-Đa (Mounda).
(18) Dây quí đạo căn; Tiếng pháp dịch: cordon sacré, sợi dây quấn bằng ba sợi chỉ mà người dòng Bà-la-môn đeo nơi cổ, trước ngực, tượng trưng dòng quí phái tu sĩ, lãnh đạo tinh thần. Người Bà-la-môn, khi được tám tuổi thì thọ lễ đeo dây ấy.
(19) Vua Tần-bà-sa-la (Bimbisâra) ở thành Vương-xá (Rajagriha)
(20) Già-da (Gâya).
(21) U-ran huy-hó (Ouralvilva)
(22) A-la-ra (Alâra)
(23) Ú-ra (Oudra).
 

By day and night here dwelt the World-honored,
Subduing that fair body born for bliss
With fast and frequent watch and search intense
Of silent meditation, so prolonged
That ofttimes while he mused -- as motionless
As the fixed rock his seat -- the squirrel leaped
Upon his knee, the timid quail led forth
Her brood between his feet, and blue doves pecked 
The rice-grains from the bowl beside his hand.

Thus would he muse from noontide -- when the land 
Shimmered with heat, and walls and temples danced 
In the reeking air -- till sunset, noting not 
The blazing globe roll down, nor evening glide, 
Purple and swift, across the softened fields; 
Nor the still coming of the stars, nor throb 
Of drum-skins in the busy town, nor screech 
Of owl and night-jar; wholly wrapt from self 
In keen unravelling of the threads of thought 
And steadfast pacing of life's labyrinths.
Thus would he sit till midnight hushed the world
Save where the beasts of darkness in the brake
Crept and cried out, as fear and hatred cry,
As lust and avarice and anger creep
In the black jungles of man's ignorance.

Then slept he for what space the fleet moon asks
To swim a tenth part of her cloudy sea;
But rose ere the False-dawn, and stood again
Wistful on some dark platform of his hill,
Watching the sleeping earth with ardent eyes
And thoughts embracing all its living things, 
While o'er the waving fields that murmur moved
Which is the kiss of Morn waking the lands,
And in the east that miracle of Day
Gathered and grew. At first a dusk so dim
Night seems still unaware of whispered dawn,
But soon -- before the jungle-cock crows twice --
A white verge clear, a widening, brightening white,
High as the herald-star, which fades in floods
Of silver, warming into pale gold, caught
By topmost clouds, and flaming on their rims
To fervent golden glow, flushed from the brink
With saffron, scarlet, crimson, amethyst;
Whereat the sky burns splendid to the blue,
And, robed in raiment of glad light, the King
Of Life and Glory cometh!

Then our Lord,
After the manner of a Rishi, hailed
The rising orb, and went -- ablutions made --
Down by the winding path unto the town;
And in the fashion of a Rishi passed
From street to street, with begging-bowl in hand,
Gathering the little pittance of his needs.
Soon was it filled, for all the townsmen cried,
"Take of our store, great sir!" and "Take of ours!"
Marking his godlike face and eyes enwrapt;
And mothers, when they saw our Lord go by,
Would bid their children fall to kiss his feet,
And lift his robe's hem to their brows, or run
To fill his jar, and fetch him milk and cakes.
And ofttimes as he paced, gentle and slow,
Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in care
For those he knew not, save as fellow-lives,
The dark surprised eyes of some Indian maid
Would dwell in sudden love and worship deep
On that majestic form, as if she saw
Her dreams of tenderest thought made true, and grace
Fairer than mortal fire her breast. But he
Passed onward with the bowl and yellow robe,
By mild speech paying all those gifts of hearts,
Wending his way back to the solitudes
To sit upon his hill with holy men,
And hear and ask of wisdom and its roads.

Midway on Ratnagiri's groves of calm,
Beyond the city, but below the caves,
Lodged such as hold the body foe to soul,
And flesh a beast which men must chain and tame
With bitter pains, till sense of pain is killed,
And tortured nerves vex torturer no more --
Yogis and Brahmacharis, Bhikshus, all
A gaunt and mournful band, dwelling apart.
Some day and night had stood with lifted arms,
Till -- drained of blood and withered by disease --
Their slowly-wasting joints and stiffened limbs
Jutted from sapless shoulders like dead forks
From forest trunks. Others had clenched their hands
So long and with so fierce a fortitude,
The claw-like nails grew through the festered palm.
Some walked on sandals spiked; some with sharp flints
Gashed breast and brow and thigh, scarred these with fire,
Threaded their flesh with jungle thorns and spits,
Besmeared with mud and ashes, crouching foul
In rags of dead men wrapped about their loins.

Certain there were inhabited the spots
Where death-pyres smouldered, cowering defiled
With corpses for their company, and kites
Screaming around them o'er the funeral-spoils:
Certain who cried five hundred times a day
The names of Shiva, wound with darting snakes
About their sun-tanned necks and hollow flanks
One palsied foot drawn up against the ham.
So gathered they, a grievous company;
Crowns blistered by the blazing heat, eyes bleared,
Sinews and muscles shrivelled, visages
Haggard and wan as slain men's, five days dead;
Here crouched one in the dust who noon by noon 
Meted a thousand grains of millet out,
Ate it with famished patience, seed by seed,
And so starved on; there one who bruised his pulse
With bitter leaves lest palate should be pleased;
And next, a miserable saint self-maimed,
Eyeless and tongueless, sexless, crippled, deaf;
The body by the mind being thus stripped
For glory of much suffering, and the bliss
Which they shall win -- say holy books -- whose woe
Shames gods that send us woe, and makes men gods
Stronger to suffer than Hell is to harm.

Whom sadly eying spake our Lord to one, 
Chief of the woe-begones: "Much-suffering sir! 
These many moons I dwell upon the hill --
Who am a seeker of the Truth -- and see 
My brothers here, and thee, so piteously 
Self-anguished; wherefore add ye ills to life 
Which is so evil?"
Answer made the sage:
" Tis written if a man shall mortify
His flesh, till pain be grown the life he lives
And death voluptuous rest, such woes shall purge
Sin's dross away, and the soul, purified,
Soar from the furnace of its sorrow, winged
For glorious spheres and splendor past all thought."
"Yon cloud which floats in heaven," the Prince replied,
"Wreathed like gold cloth around your Indra's throne,
Rose thither from the tempest-driven sea;
But it must fall again in tearful drops,
Trickling through rough and painful water-ways
By cleft and nullah and the muddy flood,
To Gunga and the sea, wherefrom it sprang.
Know'st thou, my brother, if it be not thus,
After their many pains, with saints in bliss?
Since that which rises falls, and that which buys
Is spent; and if ye buy heav'n with your blood
In hell's hard market, when the bargain's through
The toil begins again!"
"It may begin,"
The hermit moaned. "Alas! we know not this,
Nor surely anything; yet after night
Day comes, and after turmoil peace, and we
Hate this accursed flesh which clogs the soul
That fain would rise; so, for the sake of soul,
We stake brief agonies in game with Gods
To gain the larger joys."
"Yet if they last
A myriad years," he said, "they fade at length,
Those joys; or if not, is there then some life
Below, above, beyond, so unlike life
It will not change? Speak! do your Gods endure
For ever, brothers?"
"Nay," the Yogis said,
"Only great Brahm endures: the Gods but live."

Then spake Lord Buddha: "Will ye, being wise, 
As ye seem holy and strong-hearted ones,
Throw these sore dice, which are your groans and moans,
For gains which maybe dreams, and must have end?
Will ye, for love of soul, so loathe your flesh,
So scourge and maim it, that it shall not serve
To bear the spirit on, searching for home,
But founder on the track before nightfall,
Like willing steed o'er-spurred? Will ye, sad sirs,
Dismantle and dismember this fair house,
Where we have come to dwell by painful pasts;
Whose windows give us light -- the little light --
Whereby we gaze abroad to know if dawn
Will break, and whither winds the better road?"
Then cried they, "We have chosen this for road 
And tread it, Rajaputra, till the close 
Though all its stones were fire -- in trust of death. 
Speak, if thou know'st a way more excellent; 
If not, peace go with thee!"

Onward he passed,
Exceeding sorrowful, seeing how men
Fear so to die they are afraid to fear,
Lust so to live they dare not love their life,
But plague it with fierce penances, belike
To please the Gods who grudge pleasure to man;
Belike to balk hell by self-kindled hells;
Belike in holy madness, hoping soul
May break the better through their wasted flesh.
"Oh, flowerets of the field!" Siddârtha said,
"Who turn your tender faces to the sun --
Glad of the light, and grateful with sweet breath
Of fragrance and these robes of reverence donned
Silver and gold and purple -- none of ye
Miss perfect living, none of ye despoil
Your happy beauty. Oh, ye palms! which rise
Eager to pierce the sky and drink the wind
Blown from Malaya and the cool blue seas,
What secret know ye that ye grow content,
From time of tender shoot to time of fruit,
Murmuring such sun-songs from your feathered crowns?
Ye, too, who dwell so merry in the trees --
Quick-darting parrots, bee-birds, bulbuls, doves --
None of ye hate your life, none of ye deem
To strain to better by foregoing needs!
But man, who slays ye -- being lord -- is wise,
And wisdom, nursed on blood, cometh thus forth
In self-tormentings!"

While the Master spake
Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet,
White goats and black sheep winding slow their way,
With many a lingering nibble at the tufts,
And wanderings from the path, where water gleamed
Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed
The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept
The silly crowd still moving to the plain.
A ewe with couplets in the flock there was,
Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind
Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped,
And the vexed dam hither and thither ran,
Fearful to lose this little one or that;
Which when our Lord did mark, full tenderly
He took the limping lamb upon his neck,
Saying, "Poor woolly mother, be at peace!
Whither thou goest I will bear thy care;
'Twere all as good to ease one beast of grief
As sit and watch the sorrows of the world
In yonder caverns with the priests who pray."
"But," spake he to the herdsmen, "wherefore, friends!
Drive ye the flocks adown under high noon,
Since 'tis at evening that men fold their sheep?"
And answer gave the peasants: "We are sent
To fetch a sacrifice of goats five score,
And five score sheep, the which our Lord the King
Slayeth this night in worship of his gods."
Then said the Master: "I will also go!"

So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb
Beside the herdsmen in the dust and sun, 
The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.
Whom, when they came unto the river-side, 
A woman -- dove-eyed, young, with tearful face,
And lifted hands -- saluted, bending low: 
"Lord! thou art he," she said, "who yesterday 
Had pity on me in the fig-grove here,
Where I live lone and reared my child; but he
Straying amid the blossoms found a snake,
Which twined about his wrist, whilst he did laugh
And tease the quick forked tongue and opened mouth
Of that cold playmate. But, alas! ere long
He turned so pale and still, I could not think
Why he should cease to play, and let my breast
Fall from his lips. And one said, 'He is sick
Of poison;' and another, 'He will die.'

But I, who could not lose my precious boy,
Prayed of them physic, which might bring the light
Back to his eyes; it was so very small
That kiss-mark of the serpent, and I think
It could not hate him, gracious as he was,
Nor hurt him in his sport. And some one said,
'There is a holy man upon the hill --
Lo! now he passeth in the yellow robe
Ask of the Rishi if there be a cure
For that which ails thy son.' Whereon I came
Trembling to thee, whose brow is like a god's,
And wept and drew the face cloth from my babe,
Praying thee tell what simples might be good.
And thou, great sir! didst spurn me not, but gaze
With gentle eyes and touch with patient hand;
Then draw the face-cloth back, saying to me,
'Yea! little sister, there is that might heal
Thee first, and him, if