The Vazīr now delayed another forty days; Then slew himself,--set free his soul from earth’s affrays. 350 The people, hearing of his death, were sorely grieved; Around his corpse collected; eyes, ears, scarce believed. With many bitter moans to sorrow they gave vent; Their breasts they beat, their hair they tore, their clothing rent. To count their multitudes is in God’s power alone; Turks, Arabs, Kurds, and Romans,[113] men of every zone. They scattered o’er their heads the dust from his last home; To mourn for him was balm, all ills to overcome. They wept. Their bitter, briny tears they shed in floods; His grave a pool; those tears, as streamlets from the woods. 355 To lose him was a grief unspeakable that fell On rich and poor, on high and low, too sad to tell. A month of mourning past, the people sought to know Whom he’d appointed in his place their way to show. Whom must we recognise successor to our saint? Into whose hands commit the task of our restraint? He was a sun of light; his fire hath turned to fume, A candle now we need our darkness to illume. Our friend is gone,--is lost to our inquiring eyes. A substitute we seek,--memorial we may prize. 360 Our rose is withered;--rosebush leaves all blown away, Which vase holds now the rose-scent in its perfumed clay?” God is invisible to weakly mortal sight, His prophets are a need, to guide His Church aright. No! That’s not right! That phrase is sadly incorrect. A prophet’s one with God; not two. Think well! Reflect! They are not two; they’re one. Thou blind materialist! With God they’re one; their forms but make Him manifest. Thou seest the form alone; thy two eyes are at fault. Look with thy soul; thou’lt see as God from heaven’s vault. 365 Thy two sights will united be straightway in one, When thou behold’st the Light of God’s eternal throne. Set up ten burning candles in one selfsame place, A separate body, each, diffuses light and grace. Their powers combine in one, to brighten that retreat; Distinction now there’s none; one light alone we meet. Count out a hundred apples, quinces, pears, or plums; When mashed together, all their juice, their pulp, their scums. Things spiritual division, number, parts, know not, They split not into fractions, form no separate lot. 370 ’Tis sweet when friends with friends together come and meet. Trust then the spirit. “’Tis the letter kills”--repeat. Thy body mortify; thy flesh consume with pains. Behind it hid thou’lt find God’s unity--thy gains. If thou the body vex not,--bring not low betimes, The flesh will thee destroy, my friend, in fiery flames. The flesh it is that shows itself to human heart; The flesh it is demands asceticism’s sharp smart.