Hārūt, Mārūt,[362] two angels famed throughout the earth, Through pride and insolence lost paradise for dearth. They trusted in the wondrous power they held of old; As though a buffalo ’gainst lion should wax bold. 95 His horns are mighty weapons, fearful to the foe; The lion tears him piecemeal; horns but work him woe. Had he as many horns as hedgehog quills, all o’er, They’d help him not; the lion still would him o’erpow’r. The hurricane roots up the forest trees amain; While pliant reeds from it no injury sustain. The fury of the blast hurts not their supple ease. Of strength, then, boast thee not, man. Seek wrath to appease. The axe is nothing daunted, seeing boughs of trees; But, one by one, hews through them all; their end foresees. 100 The axe sets not its trenchant edge to lop off leaves; ’Tis not the silky down of thistles that it cleaves. A flame is not abashed, though many thorns collect; Whole herds of sheep can never butcher’s knife deflect. To inward idea’s power the outward sign must yield. That power, ’tis, makes revolve the heavens’ vast starry field. The sphere, the circling firmament, consider now. What makes it turn? A force that rest will not allow. The movements of our bodies have no other source;— The soul it is originates all vital force. 105 The circulation of the air’s from an idea; The millstone turns by water from the fields’ area. The ebb and flow of tides, breath drawn, again expired, Whence all? ’Tis life compels, diffused through all, respired. The spirit ’tis decides what words our pen shall write; Or peace, or war, or anything our minds indite. To right, to left we go, e’en as the spirit wills; A rose, a thorn,--the spirit says which place it fills.