The Voice of Science in Nineteenth-Century Literature Part 12

XLIX

Would you that spangle of Existence spend About THE SECRET--quick about it, Friend!

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True-- And upon what, prithee, may life depend?

L

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True; Yes; and a single Alif were the clue-- Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house, And peradventure to THE MASTER too;

LI

Whose secret Presence, though Creation's veins Running Quicksilver-like, eludes your pains; Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and They change and perish all--but He remains;

LII

A moment guess'd--then back behind the Fold Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd Which, for the Pastime of Eternity, He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.

LIII

But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door, You gaze TO-DAY, while You are You--how then TO-MORROW, You when shall be You no more?

LIV

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit Of This and That endeavor and dispute; Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

LV

You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed, And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

LVI

For "IS" and "IS-NOT" though with Rule and Line And "UP-AND-DOWN" by Logic I define, Of all that one should care to fathom, I Was never deep in anything but--Wine.

LVII

Ah, but my Computations, People say, Reduced the Year to better reckoning?--Nay, 'Twas only striking from the Calendar Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.

LVIII

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, Came s.h.i.+ning through the Dusk an Angel Shape Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!

LIX

The Grape that can with Logic absolute The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute: The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice Life's leaden metal into Gold trans.m.u.te:

LX

The mighty Mahmud, Allah breathing Lord, That all the misbelieving and black Horde Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.

LXI

Why, be this Juice the growth of G.o.d, who dare Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?

A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?

And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?

LXII

I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must, Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust, Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink, To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!

LXIII

O threats of h.e.l.l and Hopes of Paradise!

One thing at least is certain--_This_ Life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

LXIV

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who Before us pa.s.s'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too.

LXV

The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep, They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.

LXVI

I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And by and by my Soul return'd to me, And answer'd, "I myself am Heav'n and h.e.l.l":

LXVII

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And h.e.l.l the Shadow from a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

LXVIII

We are no other than a moving row Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

LXIX

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days; Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.

LXX

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Here or There as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd you down into the Field, _He_ knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows!

LXXI

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

LXXII

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to _It_ for help--for It As impotently moves as you or I.