We live our lives with rogues and fools, dead and alive, alive and dead, We die ’twixt one who feels the pulse and one who frets and clouds the head: And,—oh, the Pity!—hardly conned the lesson comes its fatal term; Fate bids us bundle up our books, and bear them bod’ily to the worm: Hardly we learn to wield the blade before the wrist grows stiff and old; Hardly we learn to ply the pen ere Thought and Fancy faint with cold. Hardly we find the path of love, to sink the self, forget the “I,” When sad suspicion grips the heart, when Man, _the_ Man begins to die: Hardly we scale the wisdom-heights, and sight the Pisgah-scene around, And breathe the breath of heav’enly air, and hear the Spheres’ harmonious sound; When swift the Camel-rider spans the howling waste, by Kismet sped, And of his Magic Wand a wave hurries the quick to join the dead.* * Death in Arabia rides a Camel, not a pale horse. How sore the burden, strange the strife; how full of splendour, wonder, fear; Life, atom of that Infinite Space that stretcheth ’twixt the Here and There. How Thought is imp’otent to divine the secret which the gods defend, The Why of birth and life and death, that Isis-veil no hand may rend. Eternal Morrows make our Day; our _Is_ is aye _to be_ till when Night closes in; ’tis all a dream, and yet we die,—and then and THEN? And still the Weaver plies his loom, whose warp and woof is wretched Man Weaving th’ unpattern’d dark design, so dark we doubt it owns a plan. Dost not, O Maker, blush to hear, amid the storm of tears and blood, Man say Thy mercy made what is, and saw the made and said ’twas good? The marvel is that man can smile dreaming his ghostly ghastly dream;- Better the heedless atomy that buzzes in the morning beam! O the dread pathos of our lives! how durst thou, Allah, thus to play With Love, Affection, Friendship, all that shows the god in mortal clay? But ah! what ’vaileth man to mourn; shall tears bring forth what smiles ne’er brought; Shall brooding breed a thought of joy? Ah hush the sigh, forget the thought! Silence thine immemorial quest, contain thy nature’s vain complaint None heeds, none cares for thee or thine;— like thee how many came and went? Cease, Man, to mourn, to weep, to wail; enjoy thy shining hour of sun; We dance along Death’s icy brink, but is the dance less full of fun? IV What Truths hath gleaned that Sage consumed by many a moon that waxt and waned? What Prophet-strain be his to sing? What hath his old Experience gained? There is no God, no man-made God; a bigger, stronger, crueller man; Black phantom of our baby-fears, ere Thought, the life of Life, began. Right quoth the Hindu Prince of old,* “An Ishwara for one I nill, Th’ almighty everlasting Good who cannot ’bate th’ Eternal Ill:” * Buddha.