O tongue! Thou’rt a fire, and also a cornstack![222] My patience, the cornstack! Hark! How its flames crack! My soul doth, in secret, of thee complain sore; But whate’er thou wishest, it does evermore. O tongue: Thou’rt a treasure, beyond all earth’s price! And yet thou’rt a plague, that’s not always too nice! A whistle art thou, birds decoying afield. A solace to love’s wayward, fitful, spoilt child. To men thou’rt all darkness, and blasphemy’s bale; To saints, guide, companion too, through this dark vale. 160 Thou’rt pitiless! Pity on me take, awhile. Thy bow thou hast strung, on poor me to work guile. Thou hast taken my bird; thou hast flustered my soul. So cruel why be? Why delight take so foul? An answer pray give; or else, deal out justice; Or hope let me have to taste joy’s chalice. My dawn! Thou dispellest my deep’ning darkness. My light! Day with thee is all sunshine brightness. Alas! That swift bird, boldly soaring, of mine, My lowest fall plumbed, traced my lineage divine. 165 The ignorant, wooers of trouble are, all. “I swear,” down to “misery” read, thou poor thrall.[223] From misery free made me thy countenance. From spume, so the clear stream of thy assistance. Regret is a nursing of phantoms by day. Neglect, stern realities drives not away. A zeal for the truth is in God, there’s no doubt. The heart, with God’s will, is constrained to burst out. He’s zeal, Who is “other,” far, than all things else,[224] Beyond all praise, laud, blessing, thanks, in heart’s pulse. 170 Alas! my hot tears have become briny lake,— An offering worthy my lost idol’s sake. My parrot! My wise bird! My starling art thou! Interpreter, reader of thoughts, secrets, thou. All daily events, results, just or unjust, By Him ordained were, as I know, from the first. The Parrot, inspired, who by voice of man spoke, Existed ere dawn of existence first broke. That Parrot is plainly within thyself felt; Around thee His motto is ev’rywhere spelt. 175 Art joyful? From Him, know, all joys here do spring. Art wronged? Thou submittest. Thou’rt under His wing. O thou, who for body dost injure thy soul, Thy proud flesh to pamper, dost wrong to thy whole. I, too, am in flames. Who, then, seeks burning brand, The trash to consume of conceit from the land? That which is once burnt cannot blaze out again. Select flaming brand, living fire choose, amain. Alas! Lackaday! What has thus come to me? My full moon in clouds why thus hidden to be? 180 I scarcely can breathe; with deep sorrow heart burns; Male-lion-like, grief all kind condolence spurns. He who in his senses has thus become drunk, How fierce would he rage, if in cups he were sunk. A lion in heat, he, despising all bounds;