June 12 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
Vishnu Holds Up a Battle
Two armies of ancient India were about to engage in a momentous battle. Arjuna, heroic leader of the Pandu hosts, foreseeing great slaughter, hesitates. He implores the divine Vishnu to intervene. The conversation of the warrior and the god is a gem of Hindu literature.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
The Bhagavad-Gita
The reading starts at the title “The Bhagavad-Gita, or Song Celestial” on page 785.
THE BHAGAVAD-GITA
OR
SONG CELESTIAL
CHAPTER I
Dhritirashtra:
RANGED thus for battle on the sacred plain—On Kurukshetra—say, Sanjaya! sayWhat wrought my people, and the Pandavas?
SANJAYA:
When he beheld the host of PandavasRaja Duryôdhana to Drona drew,And spake these words: “Ah, Guru! see this line,How vast it is of Pandu fighting-men,Embattled by the son of Drupada,Thy scholar in the war! Therein stand rankedChiefs like Arjuna, like to Bhîma chiefs,Benders of bows; Virâta, Yuyudhân,Drupada, eminent upon his car,Dhrishtaket, Chekitân, Kasi’s stout lord,Purujit, Kuntibhôj, and Saivya,With Yudhâmanyu, and UttamaujSubhadra’s child; and Drupadi’s;—all famed!All mounted on their shining chariots!On our side, too,—thou best of Brahmans! seeExcellent chiefs, commanders of my line,Whose names I joy to count: thyself the first,Then Bhishma, Karna, Kripa fierce in fight,Vikarna, Aswatthâman; next to theseStrong Saumadatti, with full many moreValiant and tried, ready this day to dieFor me their king, each with his weapon grasped,Each skilful in the field. Weakest—meseems—Our battle shows where Bhishma holds command,And Bhima, fronting him, something too strong!Have care our captains nigh to Bhishma’s ranksPrepare what help they may! Now, blow my shell!”
Then, at the signal of the aged king,With blare to wake the blood, rolling aroundLike to a lion’s roar, the trumpeterBlew the great Conch; and, at the noise of it,Trumpets and drums, cymbals and gongs and hornsBurst into sudden clamor; as the blastsOf loosened tempest, such the tumult seemed!Then might be seen, upon their car of goldYoked with white steeds, blowing their battle-shells,Krishna the God, Arjuna at his side:Krishna, with knotted locks, blew his great conchCarved of the “Giant’s bone;” Arjuna blewIndra’s loud gift; Bhima the terrible—Wolf-bellied Bhima—blew a long reed-conch;And Yudhisthira, Kunti’s blameless son,Winded a mighty shell, “Victory’s Voice;”And Nakula blew shrill upon his conchNamed the “Sweet-sounding,” Sahadev on hisCalled “Gem-bedecked,” and Kasi’s Prince on his.Sikhandi on his car, Dhrishtadyumn,Virâta, Sâtyaki the Unsubdued,Drupada, with his sons, (O Lord of Earth!)Long-armed Subhadra’s children, all blew loud,So that the clangor shook their foemen’s hearts,With quaking earth and thundering heav’n.Then ’twas—Beholding Dhritirashtra’s battle set,Weapons unsheathing, bows drawn forth, the warInstant to break—Arjun, whose ensign-badgeWas Hanuman the monkey, spake this thingTo Krishna the Divine, his charioteer:“Drive, Dauntless One! to yonder open groundBetwixt the armies; I would see more nighThese who will fight with us, those we must slayTo-day, in war’s arbitrament; for, sure,On bloodshed all are bent who throng this plain,Obeying Dhritirashtra’s sinful son.”
Thus, by Arjuna prayed (O Bharata!)Between the hosts that heavenly CharioteerDrove the bright car, reining its milk-white steedsWhere Bhishma led, and Drona, and their Lords.“See!” spake he to Arjuna, “where they stand,Thy kindred of the Kurus:” and the PrinceMarked on each hand the kinsmen of his house,Grandsires and sires, uncles and brothers and sons,Cousins and sons-in-law and nephews, mixedWith friends and honored elders; some this side,Some that side ranged: and, seeing those opposed,Such kith grown enemies—Arjuna’s heartMelted with pity, while he uttered this:
ARJUNA:
Krishna! as I behold, come here to shedTheir common blood, yon concourse of our kin,My members fail, my tongue dries in my mouth,A shudder thrills my body, and my hairBristles with horror; from my weak hand slipsGandîv, the goodly bow; a fever burnsMy skin to parching; hardly may I stand;The life within me seems to swim and faint;Nothing do I foresee save woe and wail!It is not good, O Keshav! nought of goodCan spring from mutual slaughter! Lo, I hateTriumph and domination, wealth and ease,Thus sadly won! Aho! what victoryCan bring delight, Govinda! what rich spoilsCould profit; what rule recompense; what spanOf life itself seem sweet, bought with such blood?Seeing that these stand here, ready to die,For whose sake life was fair, and pleasure pleased,And power grew precious:—grandsires, sires, and sons.Brothers, and fathers-in-law, and sons-in-law,Elders and friends! Shall I deal death on theseEven though they seek to slay us? Not one blow,O Madhusudan! will I strike to gainThe rule of all Three Worlds; then, how much lessTo seize an earthly kingdom! Killing theseMust breed but anguish, Krishna! If they beGuilty, we shall grow guilty by their deaths;Their sins will light on us, if we shall slayThose sons of Dhritirashtra, and our kin;What peace could come of that, O Madhava?For if indeed, blinded by lust and wrath,These cannot see, or will not see, the sinOf kingly lines o’erthrown and kinsmen slain,How should not we, who see, shun such a crime—We who perceive the guilt and feel the shame—Oh, thou Delight of Men, Janârdana?By overthrow of houses perishethTheir sweet continuous household piety,And—rites neglected, piety extinct—Enters impiety upon that home;Its women grow unwomaned, whence there springMad passions, and the mingling-up of castes,Sending a Hell-ward road that family,And whoso wrought its doom by wicked wrath.Nay, and the souls of honored ancestorsFall from their place of peace, being bereftOf funeral-cakes and the wan death-water.1So teach our holy hymns. Thus, if we slayKinsfolk and friends for love of earthly power,Ahovat! what an evil fault it were!Better I deem it, if my kinsmen strike,To face them weaponless, and bare my breastTo shaft and spear, than answer blow with blow.
So speaking, in the face of those two hosts,Arjuna sank upon his chariot-seat,And let fall bow and arrows, sick at heart.
Here endeth Chapter I. of the Bhagavad-Gîtâ, entitled “Arjun-Vishâd,” or “The Book of the Distress of Arjuna.”
CHAPTER II
SANJAYA:
HIM, filled with such compassion and such grief,With eyes tear-dimmed, despondent, in stern wordsThe Driver, Madhusudan, thus addressed:
KRISHNA:
How hath this weakness taken thee? Whence springsThe inglorious trouble, shameful to the brave,Barring the path of virtue? Nay, Arjun!Forbid thyself to feebleness! it marsThy warrior-name! cast off the coward-fit!Wake! Be thyself! Arise, Scourge of thy foes!
ARJUNA:
How can I, in the battle, shoot with shaftsOn Bhishma, or on Drona—oh, thou Chief!—Both worshipful, both honorable men?
Better to live on beggar’s breadWith those we love alive,Than taste their blood in rich feasts spread,And guiltily survive!Ah! were it worse—who knows?—to beVictor or vanquished here,When those confront us angrilyWhose death leaves living drear?In pity lost, by doubtings tossed,My thoughts—distracted—turnTo Thee, the Guide I reverence most,That I may counsel learn:I know not what would heal the griefBurned into soul and sense,If I were earth’s unchallenged chief—A god—and these gone thence!
SANJAYA:
So spake Arjuna to the Lord of Hearts,And sighing, “I will not fight!” held silence then.To whom, with tender smile (O Bharata!)While the Prince wept despairing ’twixt those hosts,Krishna made answer in divinest verse:
KRISHNA:
Thou grievest where no grief should be! thou speak’stWords lacking wisdom! for the wise in heartMourn not for those that live, nor those that die.Nor I, nor thou, nor any one of these,Ever was not, nor ever will not be,For ever and for ever afterwards.All, that doth live, lives always! To man’s frameAs there come infancy and youth and age,So come there raisings-up and layings-downOf other and of other life-abodes,Which the wise know, and fear not. This that irks—Thy sense-life, thrilling to the elements—Bringing thee heat and cold, sorrows and joys,’Tis brief and mutable! Bear with it, Prince!As the wise bear. The soul which is not moved,The soul that with a strong and constant calmTakes sorrow and takes joy indifferently,Lives in the life undying! That which isCan never cease to be; that which is notWill not exist. To see this truth of bothIs theirs who part essence from accident,Substance from shadow. Indestructible,Learn thou! the Life is, spreading life through all;It cannot anywhere, by any means,Be anywise diminished, stayed, or changed.But for these fleeting frames which it informsWith spirit deathless, endless, infinite,They perish. Let them perish, Prince! and fight!He who shall say, “Lo! I have slain a man!”He who shall think, “Lo! I am slain!” those bothKnow naught! Life cannot slay. Life is not slain!Never the spirit was born; the spirit shall cease to be never;Never was time it was not; End and Beginning are dreams!Birthless and deathless and changeless remaineth the spirit for ever;Death hath not touched it at all, dead though the house of it seems!
Who knoweth it exhaustless, self-sustained,Immortal, indestructible,—shall suchSay, “I have killed a man, or caused to kill?”
Nay, but as when one layethHis worn-out robes away,And, taking new ones, sayeth,“These will I wear to-day!”So putteth by the spiritLightly its garb of flesh,And passeth to inheritA residence afresh.
I say to thee weapons reach not the Life,Flame burns it not, waters cannot o’erwhelm,Nor dry winds wither it. Impenetrable,Unentered, unassailed, unharmed, untouched,Immortal, all-arriving, stable, sure,Invisible, ineffable, by wordAnd thought uncompassed, ever all itself,Thus is the Soul declared! How wilt thou, then,Knowing it so,—grieve when thou shouldst not grieve?How, if thou hearest that the man new-deadIs, like the man new-born, still living man—One same, existent Spirit—wilt thou weep?The end of birth is death; the end of deathIs birth: this is ordained! and mournest thou,Chief of the stalwart arm! for what befallsWhich could not otherwise befall? The birthOf living things comes unperceived; the deathComes unperceived; between them, beings perceive:What is there sorrowful herein dear Prince?Wonderful, wistful, to contemplate!Difficult, doubtful, to speak upon!Strange and great for tongue to relate,Mystical hearing for every one!Nor wotteth man this, what a marvel it is,When seeing, and saying, and hearing are done!
This Life within all living things, my Prince!Hides beyond harm; scorn thou to suffer, then,For that which cannot suffer. Do thy part!Be mindful of thy name, and tremble not!Nought better can betide a martial soulThan lawful war; happy the warriorTo whom comes joy of battle—comes, as now,Glorious and fair, unsought; opening for himA gateway unto Heav’n. But, if thou shunn’stThis honorable field—a Kshattriya—If, knowing thy duty and thy task, thou bidd’stDuty and task go by—that shall be sin!And those to come shall speak thee infamyFrom age to age; but infamy is worseFor men of noble blood to bear than death!The chiefs upon their battle-chariotsWill deem ’twas fear that drove thee from the fray.Of those who held thee mighty-souled the scornThou must abide, while all thine enemiesWill scatter bitter speech of thee, to mockThe valor which thou hadst; what fate could fallMore grievously than this? Either—being killed—Thou wilt win Swarga’s safety, or—aliveAnd victor—thou wilt reign an earthly king.Therefore, arise, thou Son of Kunti! braceThine arm for conflict, nerve thy heart to meet—As things alike to thee—pleasure or pain,Profit or ruin, victory or defeat:So minded, gird thee to the fight, for soThou shalt not sin!
Thus far I speak to theeAs from the “Sânkhya”—unspiritually—Hear now the deeper teaching of the Yôg,Which holding, understanding, thou shalt burstThy Karmabandh, the bondage of wrought deeds.Here shall no end be hindered, no hope marredNo loss be feared: faith—yea, a little faith—Shall save thee from the anguish of thy dread.Here, Glory of the Kurus! shines one rule—One steadfast rule—while shifting souls have lawsMany and hard. Specious, but wrongful deemThe speech of those ill-taught ones who extolThe letter of their Vedas, saying, “ThisIs all we have, or need;” being weak at heartWith wants, seekers of Heaven: which comes—they say—As “fruit of good deeds done;” promising menMuch profit in new births for works of faith;In various rites abounding; following whereonLarge merit shall accrue towards wealth and power;Albeit, who wealth and power do most desireLeast fixity of soul have such, least holdOn heavenly meditation. Much these teach,From Veds, concerning the “three qualities;”But thou, be free of the “three qualities,”Free of the “pairs of opposites,”2 and freeFrom that sad righteousness which calculates;Self-ruled, Arjuna! simple, satisfied!3Look! like as when a tank pours water forthTo suit all needs, so do these Brahmans drawTexts for all wants from tank of Holy Writ.But thou, want not! ask not! Find full rewardOf doing right in right! Let right deeds beThy motive, not the fruit which comes from them.And live in action! Labor! Make thine actsThy piety, casting all self aside,Contemning gain and merit; equableIn good or evil: equabilityIs Yôg, is piety!
Yet, the right actIs less, far less, than the right-thinking mind.Seek refuge in thy soul; have there thy heaven!Scorn them that follow virtue for her gifts!The mind of pure devotion—even here—Casts equally aside good deeds and bad,Passing above them. Unto pure devotionDevote thyself: with perfect meditationComes perfect act, and the right-hearted rise—More certainly because they seek no gain—Forth from the bands of body, step by step,To highest seats of bliss. When thy firm soulHath shaken off those tangled oraclesWhich ignorantly guide, then shall it soarTo high neglect of what’s denied or said,This way or that way, in doctrinal writ.Troubled no longer by the priestly loreSafe shall it live, and sure; steadfastly bentOn meditation. This is Yôg—and Peace!
ARJUNA:
What is his mark who hath that steadfast heart,Confirmed in holy meditation? HowKnow we his speech, Kesava? Sits he, moves heLike other men?
KRISHNA:
When one, O Prithâ’s Son!—Abandoning desires which shake the mind—Finds in his soul full comfort for his soul,He hath attained the Yôg—that man is such!In sorrows not rejected, and in joysNot overjoyed; dwelling outside the stressOf passion, fear, and anger; fixed in calmsOf lofty contemplation;—such an oneIs Muni, is the Sage, the true Recluse!He, who to none and nowhere overboundBy ties of flesh, takes evil things and goodNeither desponding nor exulting, suchBears wisdom’s plainest mark! He who shall draw,As the wise tortoise draws its four feet safeUnder its shield, his five frail senses backUnder the spirit’s buckler from the worldWhich else assails them, such an one, my Prince!Hath wisdom’s mark! Things that solicit senseHold off from the self-governed; nay, it comes,The appetites of him who lives beyondDepart,—aroused no more. Yet may it chanceO Son of Kunti! that a governed mindShall some time feel the sense-storms sweep, and wrestStrong self-control by the roots. Let him regainHis kingdom! let him conquer this, and sitOn Me intent. That man alone is wiseWho keeps the mastery of himself! If onePonders on objects of the sense, there springsAttraction; from attraction grows desire,Desire flames to fierce passion, passion breedsRecklessness; then the memory—all betrayed—Lets noble purpose go, and saps the mind,Till purpose, mind, and man are all undone.But, if one deals with objects of the senseNot loving and not hating, making themServe his free soul, which rests serenely lord,Lo, such a man comes to.tranquillity;And out of that tranquillity shall riseThe end and healing of his earthly pains,Since the will governed sets the soul at peace.The soul of the ungoverned is not his,Nor hath he knowledge of himself; which lacked,How grows serenity? and, wanting that,Whence shall he hope for happiness?The mindThat gives itself to follow shows of senseSeeth its helm of wisdom rent away,And, like a ship in waves of whirlwind, drivesTo wreck and death. Only with him, great Prince!Whose senses are not swayed by things of sense—Only with him who holds his mastery,Shows wisdom perfect. What is midnight-gloomTo unenlightened souls shines wakeful dayTo his clear gaze; what seems as wakeful dayIs known for night, thick night of ignorance,To his true-seeing eyes. Such is the Saint!
And like the ocean, day by day receivingFloods from all lands, which never overflows;Its boundary-line not leaping, and not leaving,Fed by the rivers, but unswelled by those;—
So is the perfect one! to his soul’s oceanThe world of sense pours streams of witchery;They leave him as they find, without commotion,Taking their tribute, but remaining sea.
Yea! whoso, shaking off the yoke of flesh,Lives lord, not servant, of his lusts; set freeFrom pride, from passion, from the sin of “Self,”Toucheth tranquillity! O Prithâ’s son!That is the state of Brahm! There rests no dreadWhen that last step is reached! Live where he will,Die when he may, such passeth from all ’plaining,To blest Nirvâna, with the Gods, attaining.
Here endeth Chapter II. of the Bhagavad-Gîtâ, entitled “Sânkhya-Yôg,” or “The Book of Doctrines”
The reading ends with the close of Chapter II on page 798.
Volume 45, pages 785–798 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for June 12 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition), page 56. There the assignment reads “Vol. 45, pp. 785–798.” Read it in the guide.