And now to close thy lesson, look through this! He gave to me a strangely fashioned glass, Through which, when I had looked to Earth, I saw A long black wall, that towered immensely high, So none might see beyond. Before its length, Mankind were ranged, all weaving busily; The young and old, the maiden and the man; The infant hands unconscious plied the thread, The aged with a feeble, listless move. They wove the warp of Life, and drew its thread From o’er the wall; none knew how far its end Was off, nor when ’twould reach the busy hand, Nor did they care, in aught by action shown, But bending o’er their work, without a glance Towards the thread, that still so smoothly ran, They threw the shuttle back and forth again, Till suddenly the ravelled end appeared, Fell from the wall, and to the shuttle crept; And then the weaver laid his work aside, With folded hands, was wrapped within his warp, To wait the Master’s sentence on his task. I saw the thread, in passing through their hands, Received the various colors, from their touch, And tinged the different patterns that they wove. And oh! how different in design! Some wove A spotless fabric, whose pure simple plan Was always ready for the ending thread; Come when it would, no part was incomplete; But what was done, could bear th’ Inspector’s eye. And others wove a dark and dingy rag, That bore no pattern, save its filthiness; Fit garment for the fool who weaves for flames! Some wove the great red woof of war, With clashing swords, and crossing bayonets, With ghastly bones, and famished widows’ homes, With all the grim machinery of Death, To gain a paltry crown, or curule chair; Perchance, before the crown or chair is reached, The thread gives out, the work is incomplete, And in the gory cloak his hands have wrought, With all its stains unwashed, the hero sleeps. Some shuttles shape the gilded temple, Fame, And count on thread to weave its topmost dome; But ere the lowest pinnacle is touched, The brittle filament is snapped. Some weave The bema, with its loud applause; and some The gaudy chaplet of the bacchanal, And others sweated bays of honest toil. But all the fabrics bear the yellow stain Of gold, o’er which the sinner and the saint Unseemly strive, and he seems happiest Whose work is yellowest. Along the wall, “A fountain filled with blood,” plays constantly, Where man may cleanse the fabric as he weaves; Yet few avail themselves; the waters flow, While Man works on, without regard to stains, Till thread worn thin arouses him to fear, Or breaks before the damning dyes are cleansed.