The Arab, his poor pitcher, Caliph, all, observe, Ourselves are. “He shall swerve whom God shall cause to swerve!”[322] Our Arab, know, ’s the mind; his wife, our lusts and greed. These two are tenebrous; the mind’s the torch they need. Now hear whence has arisen the ground of their dispute: Th’ infinite finites holds, of various attribute;— 665 Parts finite;--not parts infinite of th’ infinite, Like scent of rose,--part infinite of definite. The verdure’s beauty infinite is, as a part; The cooing of the dove’s as infinite, in logic art. But go we not too far afield for sorts and kinds; Or poor disciples ne’er will slake their thirsting minds. Dost doubt? Art racked with difficulties? To excess? Have patience. “Patience is the key of all success!”[323] Be abstinent. Let not thy crowding thoughts run wild. Thoughts lions are, and antelopes. Mind’s forest; child! 670 The prime of remedies is abstinence, we know. And scratching irritates the itch;--as leeches show. Of treatment medical the base is abstinence. Therefore be abstinent. Show strength of mind and sense. Accept my counsel. Lend an ear as I advise; In golden earrings, counsel’s pearls shall be thy prize. Be thou as slave to this, my cunning goldsmith-art; I’ll teach thee how to soar beyond the stars’ bright chart. Know, first of all, creation’s minds are manifold, As are its forms;--from Alpha to Omega told. 675 From this variety, disorder seems to rise; Though, in true sense, to unity the series hies. In one sense, they’re discordant; other, in accord; They now as folly, now as wisdom, pass a word. The day of judgment will to each assign its place; All men of wisdom yearn to see that day of grace. He who, as blackamoor, is steeped in sin’s dark dye, In that dread day shall gulp dishonour’s foulest lye. The wretch whose countenance beams not bright as the sun, Shall strive in vain behind the densest veil to run. 680 If, like some thorns, his stem display no single rose, That springtide will prove fatal to his safe repose. But he that blooms from head to foot with righteous deeds, With joy shall welcome spring’s awakening of those meads. The useless thorn desires the nipping wintry blast, To lay all low and simplify the flowery vast; That so, all beauty cloaked, all squalor hid, the same, All glorious hues, all hideous sights, be rendered tame. The leaf’s fall to such thorn more grateful is than spring; The ruby and the flint are one in tithesman’s ring. 685 True, that the gardener’s eye in winter knows the thorn; But what is one eye’s scrutiny to general scorn!