Democritus, not stooping to complain, When he missed the old readiness of brain, Stayed for no rougher monitors of age; Spared death the toil of posting the last stage, When the sun arises the stars that shone In high Heaven, leave it to flame alone. Epicurus was the sun; in his light Wisdom of other men became as night, His page tracks life to its source; there the whole Is moulded by this father of the soul. Mortal being is a medley; but as bees, Ranging up and down, among flow’rs and trees, In a woodland glade, sip everywhere, Scorning nothing suckled by sunny air, And turn all to honey, so his wise pen Transmutes words into golden sweets for men. As his thought wells up from a mind divine, Terrors bred of animal blood resign Their hold, world’s walls crumble in dust away, I see in light clearer than that of day Earth—above it, through it; but nought to tell Of an Under-world, torture-jail of Hell. Heaven stands revealed; the Gods’ quiet home, Where nor clouds, nor rain and snow-storms dare come, And in large air they breathe immortally, Unknowing sin or grief, content to Be. Ah! the debt that I owe, joy mixed with awe, For all I learned through him of Nature’s law! If lives stretched for goodness, well might his vie For an exemption from the rule to die; Nothing more certain, as his light grew dim, Than his waiver of it, if pressed on him. And You make a fuss at death, fret and fume, When how does your life differ from a tomb? You rid yourself of half of it in sleep; For the other half, when you think you keep Awake, bemused you yawn and snore, a prey To sick nightmares although it is broad day, Chief of your evils being that you fail To extort from them what it is you ail. Cruel the weight, you cry, upon your breast; It wears you out, and robs you of your rest. Seek whence it came, and by what right it took You for pack-horse, and why it is you brook The burden; put it, put your brain and heart To the question. When you and Reason part, The nightmare will be gone, and you will find You have regained possession of your mind. Ignorance of Causes;—that is the main Virus in the pest of which you complain. You rush about with it, are discontent To return no sounder than when you went. Ho! to the villa from the house in Town— As driving a fire engine—headlong down. Doze; with the fury that you galloped down, Gallop up, just to sup alone in Town! Why! to escape yourself—from whom, be sure, You cannot flee out of whatever door. Yourself you loathe for sickness! And its Cause? None else than being blind to Nature’s laws. Life-in-death—it fleets! Moments its concern; Yet in them what may not a mortal learn! Study those laws, I say; they keep the key Of the Universe and Eternity; The clue to what hereafter shall be made Of this stuff in which, men, we masquerade.