Illusion

He breaks the Law, he burns the Book, he sends the Moolah back to school; Laughs at the beards of Saintly men; and dubs the Prophet dolt and fool,

Embraces Cypress’ taper-waist; cools feet on wavy breast of rill; Smiles in the Nargis’ love-lorn eyes, and ’joys the dance of Daffodil;

Melts in the saffron light of Dawn to hear the moaning of the Dove; Delights in Sundown’s purpling hues when Bulbul woos the Rose’s love.

Finds mirth and joy in Jamshid-bowl; toys with the Daughter of the vine; And bids the beauteous cup-boy say, “Master I bring thee ruby wine!”*

* That all the senses, even the ear, may enjoy.

Sips from the maiden’s lips the dew; brushes the bloom from virgin brow:— Such is his fleshly bliss that strives the Maker through the Made to know.

I’ve tried them all, I find them all so same and tame, so drear, so dry; My gorge ariseth at the thought; I commune with myself and cry:—

Better the myriad toils and pains that make the man to manhood true, This be the rule that guideth life; these be the laws for me and you:

With Ignor’ance wage eternal war, to know thy self forever strain, Thine ignorance of thine ignorance is thy fiercest foe, thy deadliest bane;

That blunts thy sense, and dulls thy taste; that deafs thine ears, and blinds thine eyes; Creates the thing that never was, the Thing that ever is defies.

The finite Atom infinite that forms thy circle’s centre-dot, So full-sufficient for itself, for other selves existing not,

Finds the world mighty as ’tis small; yet must be fought the unequal fray; A myriad giants here; and there a pinch of dust, a clod of clay.

Yes! maugre all thy dreams of peace still must the fight unfair be fought; Where thou mayst learn the noblest lore, to know that all we know is nought.

True to thy Nature, to Thy self, Fame and Disfame nor hope nor fear: Enough to thee the small still voice aye thund’ering in thine inner ear.

From self-approval seek applause: What ken not men thou kennest, thou! Spurn ev’ry idol others raise: Before thine own Ideal bow:

Be thine own Deus: Make self free, liberal as the circling air: Thy Thought to thee an Empire be; break every prison’ing lock and bar:

Do thou the Ought to self aye owed; here all the duties meet and blend, In widest sense, withouten care of what began, for what shall end.

Thus, as thou view the Phantom-forms which in the misty Past were thine, To be again the thing thou wast with honest pride thou may’st decline;

And, glancing down the range of years, fear not thy future self to see; Resign’d to life, to death resign’d, as though the choice were nought to thee.

On Thought itself feed not thy thought; nor turn from Sun and Light to gaze, At darkling cloisters paved with tombs, where rot the bones of bygone days:

“Eat not thy heart,” the Sages said; “nor mourn the Past, the buried Past;” Do what thou dost, be strong, be brave; and, like the Star, nor rest nor haste.

Pluck the old woman from thy breast: Be stout in woe, be stark in weal; Do good for Good is good to do: Spurn bribe of Heav’en and threat of Hell.

To seek the True, to glad the heart, such is of life the HIGHER LAW, Whose differ’ence is the Man’s degree, the Man of gold, the Man of straw.

See not that something in Mankind that rouses hate or scorn or strife, Better the worm of Izrâil* than Death that walks in form of life.