So I woke, and I thought upon my dream; for it seemed of Wisdom's ministration. What man is he that findeth Rest, though he hunt for it year after year? As a child he had not yet been wearied, and cared not then to court it; As a youth he loved not to be quiet, for excitement spurred him into strife; As a man he tracketh rest in vain, toiling painfully to catch it, But still is he pulled from the pursuit, by the strong compulsion of his fate: So he hopeth to have peace in old age, as he cannot rest in manhood, But troubles thicken with his years, till Death hath dodged him to the grave. There remaineth a rest for the spirit on the shadowy side of life; But unto this world's pilgrim no rest for the sole of his foot. Ever, from stage to stage, he travelleth wearily forward, And though he pluck flowers by the way, he may not sleep among the flowers. Mind is the perpetual motion; for it is a running stream From an unfathomable source, the depth of the Divine Intelligence: And though it be stopped in its flowing, yet hath it a current within, The surface may sleep unruffled, but underneath are whirlpools of contention. Seekest thou rest, O mortal?--seek it no more on earth, For destiny will not cease from dragging thee through the rough wilderness of life; Seekest thou rest, O immortal?--hope not to find it in heaven, For sloth yieldeth not happiness: the bliss of a spirit is action. Rest dwelleth only on an island in the midst of the ocean of existence, Where the world-weary soul for a while may fold its tired wings, Until, after short sufficient slumber, it is quickened unto deathless energy, And speedeth in eagle flight to the Sun of unapproachable Perfection. [Illustration: Of Humility] OF HUMILITY. Vice is grown aweary of her gawds, and donneth russet garments, Loving for change to walk as a nun, beneath a modest veil: For Pride hath noted how all admire the fairness of Humility, And to clutch the praise he coveteth, is content to be drest in hair-cloth; And wily Lust tempteth the young heart, that is proof against the bravery of harlots, With timid tears and retiring looks of an artful seeming maid; And indolent Apathy, sleepily ashamed of his dull lack-lustre face, Is glad of the livery of meekness, that charitable cloak and cowl; And Hatred hideth his demon frown beneath a gentle mask; And Slander, snake-like, creepeth in the dust, thinking to escape recrimination. But the world hath gained somewhat from its years, and is quick to penetrate disguises, Neither in all these is it deceived, but divideth the true from the false.