The Grape that can with Logic absolute The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute: The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute: LXII The mighty Mahmúd, Allah-breathing Lord, That all the misbelieving and black Horde Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword. LXIII Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare? A Blessing, we should use it, should we not? And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there? LXIV I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must, Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust, Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink, When the frail Cup is crumbled into Dust! LXV If but the Vine and Love-abjuring Band Are in the Prophet's Paradise to stand, Alack, I doubt the Prophet's Paradise Were empty as the hollow of one's Hand. LXVI Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! One thing at least is certain--_This_ Life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once is blown for ever dies. LXVII Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too. LXVIII The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep They told their fellows, and to Sleep return'd. LXIX Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Is't not a Shame--is't not a Shame for him So long in this Clay suburb to abide! LXX But that is but a Tent wherein may rest A Sultán to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultán rises, and the dark Ferrásh Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest. LXXI I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And after many days my Soul return'd And said, "Behold, Myself am Heav'n and Hell:" LXXII Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire. LXXIII We are no other than a moving row Of visionary Shapes that come and go Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show; LXXIV Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days; Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays. LXXV The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd you down into the Field, _He_ knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows! LXXVI