Defect is thus the mirror whence perfection’s seen; And vileness is the foil to show off grandeur’s sheen. By contrast does each opposite its fellow show, Sweet honey by sharp vinegar we best can know. The man who sees and feels his imperfections sore, Exerts himself to cure them quickly all the more. And he’ll ne’er take his flight towards heaven’s eternal King, Who holds at heart the thought that he’s a perfect thing. No worse disease exists, to taint the human mind, Than self-conceit, that paints its owner gold refined. 65 How many bitter tears has not the vain to shed, Ere arrogance can be expelled, and pride be dead! The malady of Satan,--self-conceit:—“I’m best,”[350] Exists in germ in every panting human breast. These fancy they have mortified themselves throughout. Take them to be pure streams; their filth seek in the grout. Just stir them up a little, for a trial’s sake; Thou’lt see their mud discolour all the water’s lake. There’s ooze at bottom of the pond,--be sure of that,— However clear the surface of the dull dead flat. 70 Our greatest teacher is endowed with fair device. He digs a conduit in the very soil of vice. How can he make the water of that conduit pure? All human wisdom’s but one spark from God’s vast store. Does sword inflict a wound in its own handle,--blade? Find me a surgeon who shall cure a gash so made. Where wound exists, the flies will ever flock amain, To hide its hideousness from sight, and lull the pain, Those flies the symbols are of man’s vain, baseless thoughts; The wound they cover over’s ignorance high-wrought. 75 ’Tis only when the teacher salve applies with skill, The throes are quieted that shoot across man’s will. He then imagines that his wound is healing fast. Effect this is of cunning used, that salve to cast. O man, whose back is galled, accept his salve with thanks. Thy solace thence arises; not from thy own pranks. 78 XIII. The Prophet’s First Amanuensis. There was a scribe,[351] before ‘Uthmān[352] had filled that post, Most diligent in noting revelation’s host. Whatever text the Prophet had to promulgate On parchment did this scribe trace all its terms of fate. The splendour of those inspirations filled his soul. His mind became enlightened, as a glowing coal. The substance of that wisdom from the Prophet came. The silly scribe imagined ’twas his genius’ flame: “The texts the Prophet promulgates with rare effect, Appear _verbatim_ in my mind, without defect.” 5