Just then an aged, angry voice cried out:
"O help! they've stolen my jewels and my gold!"
And from a wretched hovel by the way
An old man came, hated and shunned by all,
Whose life was spent in hoarding unused gold,
Grinding the poor, devouring widows' homes;
Ill fed, ill clad, from eagerness to save,
His sunken eyes glittering with rage and greed.
And when the prince enquired what troubled him:
"Trouble enough," he said, "my sons have fled
Because I would not waste in dainty fare
And rich apparel all my life has saved,
And taken all my jewels, all my gold.
Would that they both lay dead before my face!
O precious jewels! O beloved gold!"
The prince, helpless to soothe, hopeless to cure
This rust and canker of the soul, passed on,
His heart with all-embracing pity filled.
"O deepening mystery of life!" he cried,
"Why do such souls in human bodies dwell--
Fitter for ravening wolves or greedy swine!
Just at death's door cursing his flesh and blood
For thievish greed inherited from him.
Is this old age, or swinish greed grown old?
O how unlike that other life just fled!
His youth's companions, wife and children, dead,
Yet filled with love for all, by all beloved,
With his whole heart yearning for others' good,
With his last breath bewailing others' woes."
"My best beloved," said sweet Yasodhara,
Her bright eyes filled with sympathetic tears,
Her whole soul yearning for his inward peace,
"Brood not too much on life's dark mystery--
Behind the darkest clouds the sun still shines.
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