He loveth a rose, and himself is a rose. He loveth himself; and seeks love for its woes.” Just so is the soul. Its tale, just parrot’s tale. O where is the One to whom all souls make wail? Where is the man, feeble, who’s yet innocent? His heart, Solomon and his whole armament. 30 When he, with tears bitter, is heard to complain, The seven vaults of heaven re-echo the strain. In anguish he groans; God, in mercy, him hears. His cry is: “O Lord!” And God wipes off his tears. Abasement in him, is by God highly prized. His blasphemies, o’er other men’s faith are raised.[206] Each instant, in soul, he ascends to heaven’s gate; His mitre’s with crowns capped, of infinite state.[207] His frame’s here on earth; his pure soul with the Lord In heaven’s highest sphere, above man’s thought or word. 35 A heaven such as this thou contemplatest not; Thou every moment imaginest--what? With him “_where_” and “_nowhere_” are quite equal felt. To angels the “_four rivers_” seem a mere belt.[208] Break off we this theme. Let’s discuss other things. Cease trifling. “’Tis God who knows best” sense’s rings.[209] Let’s seek to inquire how it fares with our friends,— The merchant, his parrot. Who is’t understands? The former had promised, at latter’s request, To give to the birds of far Hind his bequest. 40 So when he had reached that land, greatly renowned In wooded retreat, flock of parrots he found. He stopped his beast, cried out, at top of his voice, That message his Polly had made, as his choice. One bird of the flock, he saw, then took to quake, Fell prone to the earth; no more breath seemed to take. The merchant regret felt for what he had done, Exclaiming: “Alas! The poor bird I’ve slain, lone! That creature was surely related to Poll; Two bodies; one soul; just as is magic doll. 45 Why did I deliver that fatal message? I’ve killed a collateral of Poll’s lineage!” The tongue, by itself, acts just like flint and steel. A word from it, fire-like, we scathing can feel. Strike not, then, so rashly, fire’s sparks from thy tongue, In message or talk, feeble hearers among. The night is pitch dark; strewn around, cotton beds. Amongst beds of cotton, ’tis, sparks one most dreads. He sins who, unmindful of dire consequence, Lets fall spoken spark,--fires a whole world, immense. 50 One rash word may set an assembly ablaze. Molehills into mountains, and higher, it can raise. In basis, our souls would appear Jesus-like. To kill, to resuscitate, words are godlike. If lifted could be from our souls the dark veil, Each word of each soul would with miracles trail.