“Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, “Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds; “Who, bolder even than NEMROD, think to rise, “By nonsense heap’d on nonsense, to the skies; “Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too, “Seen, heard, attested, ev’ry thing—but true. “Your preaching zealots, too inspir’d to seek “One grace of meaning for the things they speak; “Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood, “For truths too heavenly to be understood; “And your State Priests, sole vendors of the lore “That works salvation;—as, on AVA’S shore, “Where none _but_ priests are privileg’d to trade “In that best marble of which Gods are made;[54] “They shall have mysteries—ay, precious stuff “For knaves to thrive by—mysteries enough; “Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave, “Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, “While craftier feign belief, till they believe. “A Heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust,— “A splendid Paradise,—pure souls, ye must: “That Prophet ill sustains his holy call, “Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all; “Houris for boys, omniscience for sages, “And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. “Vain things!—as lust or vanity inspires, “The Heaven of each is but what each desires, “And, soul or sense, whate’er the object be, “Man would be man to all eternity! “So let him—EBLIS! grant this crowning curse, “But keep him what he is, no Hell were worse.” “Oh my lost soul!” exclaim’d the shuddering maid, Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said:— MOKANNA started—not abash’d, afraid,— He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles! But, in those dismal words that reach’d his ear, “Oh my lost soul!” there was a sound so drear, So like that voice, among the sinful dead, In which the legend o’er Hell’s Gate is read, That, new as ’twas from her, whom nought could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him.