There is no Good, there is no Bad

There is no Good, there is no Bad; these be the whims of mortal will: What works me weal that call I ‘good,’ what harms and hurts I hold as ‘ill:’

They change with place, they shift with race; and, in the veriest span of Time, Each Vice has worn a Virtue’s crown; all Good was banned as Sin or Crime:

Like ravelled skeins they cross and twine, while this with that connects and blends; And only Khizr* his eye shall see where one begins, where other ends:

* Supposed to be the Prophet Elijah.

What mortal shall consort with Khizr, when Musâ turned in fear to flee? What man foresees the flow’er or fruit whom Fate compels to plant the tree?

For Man’s Free-will immortal Law, Anagkê, Kismet, Des’tiny read That was, that is, that aye shall be, Star, Fortune, Fate, Urd, Norn or Need.

“Man’s nat’ural state is God’s design;” such is the silly sage’s theme; “Man’s primal Age was Age of Gold;” such is the Poet’s waking dream:

Delusion, Ign’orance! Long ere Man drew upon Earth his earliest breath The world was one contin’uous scene of anguish, torture, prey and Death;

Where hideous Theria of the wild rended their fellows limb by limb; Where horrid Saurians of the sea in waves of blood were wont to swim:

The “fair young Earth” was only fit to spawn her frightful monster-brood; Now fiery hot, now icy frore, now reeking wet with steamy flood.

Yon glorious Sun, the greater light, the “Bridegroom” of the royal Lyre, A flaming, boiling, bursting mine; a grim black orb of whirling fire:

That gentle Moon, the lesser light, the Lover’s lamp, the Swain’s delight, A ruined world, a globe burnt out, a corpse upon the road of night.

What reckt he, say, of Good or Ill who in the hill-hole made his lair, The blood-fed rav’ening Beast of prey, wilder than wildest wolf or bear?

How long in Man’s pre-Ad’amite days to feed and swill, to sleep and breed, Were the Brute-biped’s only life, a perfect life sans Code or Creed?

His choicest garb a shaggy fell, his choicest tool a flake of stone; His best of orn’aments tattoo’d skin and holes to hang his bits of bone;

Who fought for female as for food when Mays awoke to warm desire; And such the Lust that grew to Love when Fancy lent a purer fire.

Where then “Th’ Eternal nature-law by God engraved on human heart?” Behold his simiad sconce and own the Thing could play no higher part.

Yet, as long ages rolled, he learnt from Beaver, Ape and Ant to build Shelter for sire and dam and brood, from blast and blaze that hurt and killed;

And last came Fire; when scrap of stone cast on the flame that lit his den, Gave out the shining ore, and made the Lord of beasts a Lord of men.

The “moral sense,” your Zâhid-phrase, is but the gift of latest years; Conscience was born when man had shed his fur, his tail, his pointed ears.

What conscience has the murd’erous Moor, who slays his guest with felon blow, Save sorrow he can slay no more, what prick of pen’itence can he know?

You cry the “Cruelty of Things” is myst’ery to your purblind eye, Which fixed upon a point in space the general project passes by:

For see! the Mammoth went his ways, became a mem’ory and a name; While the half-reasoner with the hand* survives his rank and place to claim.