The sea and land are separated there, And holy Scripture was the volume named. Then did he write those jewels of the world, The Proofs, the Ordinances, and the Laws. In the last chapter did he treat of man, And so the sacred record was complete. III AN ADDRESS TO GOD’S MUNIFICENCE, HOLINESS AND PURITY Thou art the Maker, both of man and beast, Body and life, thou gavest unto both. Yet gavest man the attributes distinct Of beauty, and of intellectual light. Thou madest the face of man to be a glass, To mirror all thy beauty’s radiance; And as thy sun-like beauty shot its rays, So beauty in the beautiful is praised. In beauteous calm thou gleamest over all; Where’er I gaze, thy splendor I behold; And not a landscape owns a single charm But what thy shining beauty yields to it. Oh thou omnipotent, a pinch of dust Thou turnest to the splendor of the world. And a friend’s face becomes a face of fire, For there thy well-loved light is shining out. Thou to the fair dost give the radiant cheek, To those in love the light step of the dance. Thou makest wave the locks of Medschnuus, And every hair becomes a snare of love. Yet all this beauty flows again to thee; And every beauteous look reflects thy face; And in the eyes of lovers, thou dost see Naught but thine own perfection in a glass. Beloved in thine own beauty’s radiance, Art thou by all, as thou art meet to be. And wheresoe’er thy beauty shall be seen, The fame of thy great loveliness is loud. But when thy glance serenely shines on men, It makes the happiness of lovers full. For thou alone on earth art harmony; And aught beside is but an idle dream. The world’s life is illusive, nothing more Than the reflection on a mirror’s face; Things are no more than words to being brought, And names the sole realities of life. The sun of beauty casts its light abroad, And all it touches kindles into life. Thy power astounds the human reason; makes The mind to totter and the brain to reel. No human wit thine essence comprehends; Reason and intellect before it fail. No man can grasp thy nature, nor can plumb With intellectual glance thy truth’s abyss. Men’s understanding is a cradle-child; And only by thyself canst thou be known. O God, I was conceived and born to sin, And to the passion that degrades my soul; Fast held, enamored by the beautiful, Grief was my portion for my earliest years; In empty brains did sensual longing burn, And wine bedrenched me like an empty skin. Eager I yielded to the goblet’s charm, And lingered like a drunkard over cups; Draught after draught, I took the ruddy wine, And threw the pleas of virtue to the wind. And all of life’s religion I renounced, And turned from all devotion’s practices;