Farewell, thou Titan fairer than the Gods! Farewell, farewell, thou swift and lovely spirit, Thou splendid warrior with the world at odds, Unpraised, unpraisable, beyond thy merit; Chased, like Orestes, by the Furies’ rods, Like him at length thy peace dost thou inherit; Beholding whom, men think how fairer far Than all the steadfast stars the wandering star! {215} XXI. _To Omar Khayyâm_. WISE Omar, do the Southern Breezes fling Above your Grave, at ending of the Spring, The Snowdrift of the Petals of the Rose, The wild white Roses you were wont to sing? Far in the South I know a Land divine, {216} And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine, And over all the Shrines the Blossom blows Of Roses that were dear to you as Wine. You were a Saint of unbelieving Days, Liking your Life and happy in Men’s Praise; Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough, Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways. Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or Hell, Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell, Content to know not all thou knowest now, What’s Death? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well? The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill, Shall He torment them if they chance to spill? Nay, like the broken Potsherds are we cast Forth and forgotten,—and what will be will! So still were we, before the Months began That rounded us and shaped us into Man. So still we _shall_ be, surely, at the last, Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban! Ah, strange it seems that this thy common Thought— How all Things have been, ay, and shall be nought— Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East, In those old Days when Senlac Fight was fought, Which gave our England for a captive Land To pious Chiefs of a believing Band, A gift to the Believer from the Priest, Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! {218} Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave Through Helm and Brain of him who could not save His England, even of Harold Godwin’s son; The high Tide murmurs by the Hero’s Grave! {219} And _thou_ wert wreathing Roses—who can tell?— Or chanting for some Girl that pleased thee well, Or satst at Wine in Nashâpûr, when dun The twilight veiled the Field where Harold fell! The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam! Along the white Walls of his guarded Home No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o’er the Wave The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam! And dear to him, as Roses were to thee, Rings the long Roar of Onset of the Sea; The _Swan’s Path_ of his Fathers is his Grave: His Sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be. His was the Age of Faith, when all the West Looked to the Priest for Torment or for Rest; And thou wert living then, and didst not heed The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed!