I

                The hour is nigh; the waning Queen
                   walks forth to rule the later night;
                Crown’d with the sparkle of a Star,
                   and throned on orb of ashen light:

                The Wolf-tail* sweeps the paling East
                   to leave a deeper gloom behind,
                And Dawn uprears her shining head,
                   sighing with semblance of a wind:

                   * The false dawn.

                The highlands catch yon Orient gleam,
                   while purpling still the lowlands lie;
                And pearly mists, the morning-pride,
                   soar incense-like to greet the sky.

                The horses neigh, the camels groan,
                   the torches gleam, the cressets flare;
                The town of canvas falls, and man
                   with din and dint invadeth air:

                The Golden Gates swing right and left;
                   up springs the Sun with flamy brow;
                The dew-cloud melts in gush of light;
                   brown Earth is bathed in morning-glow.

                Slowly they wind athwart the wild,
                   and while young Day his anthem swells,
                Sad falls upon my yearning ear
                   the tinkling of the Camel-bells:

                O’er fiery wastes and frozen wold,
                   o’er horrid hill and gloomy glen,
                The home of grisly beast and Ghoul,*
                   the haunts of wilder, grislier men;—

                   * The Demon of the Desert.

                With the brief gladness of the Palms,
                   that tower and sway o’er seething plain,
                Fraught with the thoughts of rustling shade,
                   and welling spring, and rushing rain;

                With the short solace of the ridge,
                   by gentle zephyrs played upon,
                Whose breezy head and bosky side
                   front seas of cooly celadon;—

                ’Tis theirs to pass with joy and hope,
                   whose souls shall ever thrill and fill
                Dreams of the Birthplace and the Tomb,
                   visions of Allah’s Holy Hill.*

                   * Arafât, near Mecca.

                But we? Another shift of scene,
                   another pang to rack the heart;
                Why meet we on the bridge of Time
                   to ’change one greeting and to part?

                We meet to part; yet asks my sprite,
                   Part we to meet? Ah! is it so?
                Man’s fancy-made Omniscience knows,
                   who made Omniscience nought can know.

                Why must we meet, why must we part,
                   why must we bear this yoke of MUST,
                Without our leave or askt or given,
                   by tyrant Fate on victim thrust?

                That Eve so gay, so bright, so glad,
                   this Morn so dim, and sad, and grey;
                Strange that life’s Registrar should write
                   this day a day, that day a day!

                Mine eyes, my brain, my heart, are sad,—
                   sad is the very core of me;
                All wearies, changes, passes, ends;
                   alas! the Birthday’s injury!

                Friends of my youth, a last adieu!
                   haply some day we meet again;
                Yet ne’er the self-same men shall meet;
                   the years shall make us other men:

                The light of morn has grown to noon,
                   has paled with eve, and now farewell!
                Go, vanish from my Life as dies
                   the tinkling of the Camel’s bell.

                II

                In these drear wastes of sea-born land,
                   these wilds where none may dwell but He,
                What visionary Pasts revive,
                   what process of the Years we see:

                Gazing beyond the thin blue line
                   that rims the far horizon-ring,
                Our sadden’d sight why haunt these ghosts,
                   whence do these spectral shadows spring?

                What endless questions vex the thought,
                   of Whence and Whither, When and How?
                What fond and foolish strife to read
                   the Scripture writ on human brow;

                As stand we percht on point of Time,
                   betwixt the two Eternities,
                Whose awful secrets gathering round
                   with black profound oppress our eyes.

                “This gloomy night, these grisly waves,
                   these winds and whirlpools loud and dread:
                What reck they of our wretched plight
                   who Safety’s shore so lightly tread?”

                Thus quoth the Bard of Love and Wine,*
                   whose dream of Heaven ne’er could rise
                Beyond the brimming Kausar-cup
                   and Houris with the white-black eyes;

                   * Hâfiz of Shirâz.

                Ah me! my race of threescore years
                   is short, but long enough to pall
                My sense with joyless joys as these,
                   with Love and Houris, Wine and all.

                Another boasts he would divorce
                   old barren Reason from his bed,
                And wed the Vine-maid in her stead;—
                   fools who believe a word he said!*

                   * Omar-i-Kayyâm, the tent-maker poet of Persia.

                And “‘Dust thou art to dust returning.’
                   ne’er was spoke of human soul”
                The Soofi cries, ’tis well for him
                   that hath such gift to ask its goal.

                “And this is all, for this we’re born
                   to weep a little and to die!”
                So sings the shallow bard whose life
                   still labours at the letter “I.”

                “Ear never heard, Eye never saw
                   the bliss of those who enter in
                My heavenly kingdom,” Isâ said,
                   who wailed our sorrows and our sin:

                Too much of words or yet too few!
                   What to thy Godhead easier than
                One little glimpse of Paradise
                   to ope the eyes and ears of man?

                “I am the Truth! I am the Truth!”
                   we hear the God-drunk gnostic cry
                “The microcosm abides in ME;
                   Eternal Allah’s nought but I!”

                Mansûr* was wise, but wiser they
                   who smote him with the hurlèd stones;
                And, though his blood a witness bore,
                   no wisdom-might could mend his bones.

                   * A famous Mystic stoned for blasphemy.

                “Eat, drink, and sport; the rest of life’s
                   not worth a fillip,” quoth the King;
                Methinks the saying saith too much:
                   the swine would say the selfsame thing!

                Two-footed beasts that browse through life,
                   by Death to serve as soil design’d,
                Bow prone to Earth whereof they be,
                   and there the proper pleasures find:

                But you of finer, nobler, stuff,
                   ye, whom to Higher leads the High,
                What binds your hearts in common bond
                   with creatures of the stall and sty?

                “In certain hope of Life-to-come
                   I journey through this shifting scene”
                The Zâhid* snarls and saunters down
                   his Vale of Tears with confi’dent mien.

                   * The “Philister” of “respectable” belief.

                Wiser than Amrân’s Son* art thou,
                   who ken’st so well the world-to-be,
                The Future when the Past is not,
                   the Present merest dreamery;

                   * Moses in the Koran.

                What know’st thou, man, of Life? and yet,
                   forever twixt the womb, the grave,
                Thou pratest of the Coming Life,
                   of Heav’n and Hell thou fain must rave.

                The world is old and thou art young;
                   the world is large and thou art small;
                Cease, atom of a moment’s span,
                   To hold thyself an All-in-All!

                III.

                Fie, fie! you visionary things,
                   ye motes that dance in sunny glow,
                Who base and build Eternities
                   on briefest moment here below;

                Who pass through Life liked cagèd birds,
                   the captives of a despot will;
                Still wond’ring How and When and Why,
                   and Whence and Whither, wond’ring still;

                Still wond’ring how the Marvel came
                   because two coupling mammals chose
                To slake the thirst of fleshly love,
                   and thus the “Immortal Being” rose;

                Wond’ring the Babe with staring eyes,
                   perforce compel’d from night to day,
                Gript in the giant grasp of Life
                   like gale-born dust or wind-wrung spray;

                Who comes imbecile to the world
                   ’mid double danger, groans, and tears;
                The toy, the sport, the waif and stray
                   of passions, error, wrath and fears;

                Who knows not Whence he came nor Why,
                   who kens not Whither bound and When,
                Yet such is Allah’s choicest gift,
                   the blessing dreamt by foolish men;

                Who step by step perforce returns
                   to couthless youth, wan, white and cold,
                Lisping again his broken words
                   till all the tale be fully told:

                Wond’ring the Babe with quenchèd orbs,
                   an oldster bow’d by burthening years,
                How ’scaped the skiff an hundred storms;
                   how ’scaped the thread a thousand shears;

                How coming to the Feast unbid,
                   he found the gorgeous table spread
                With the fair-seeming Sodom-fruit,
                   with stones that bear the shape of bread:

                How Life was nought but ray of sun
                   that clove the darkness thick and blind,
                The ravings of the reckless storm,
                   the shrieking of the rav’ening wind;

                How lovely visions ’guiled his sleep,
                   aye fading with the break of morn,
                Till every sweet became a sour,
                   till every rose became a thorn;

                Till dust and ashes met his eyes
                   wherever turned their saddened gaze;
                The wrecks of joys and hopes and loves,
                   the rubbish of his wasted days;

                How every high heroic Thought
                   that longed to breathe empyrean air,
                Failed of its feathers, fell to earth,
                   and perisht of a sheer despair;

                How, dower’d with heritage of brain,
                   whose might has split the solar ray,
                His rest is grossest coarsest earth,
                   a crown of gold on brow of clay;

                This House whose frame be flesh and bone,
                   mortar’d with blood and faced with skin,
                The home of sickness, dolours, age;
                   unclean without, impure within:

                Sans ray to cheer its inner gloom,
                   the chambers haunted by the Ghost,
                Darkness his name, a cold dumb Shade
                   stronger than all the heav’nly host.

                This tube, an enigmatic pipe,
                   whose end was laid before begun,
                That lengthens, broadens, shrinks and breaks;
                   —puzzle, machine, automaton;

                The first of Pots the Potter made
                   by Chrysorrhoas’ blue-green wave;*
                Methinks I see him smile to see
                   what guerdon to the world he gave!

                   * The Abana, River of Damascus.

                How Life is dim, unreal, vain,
                   like scenes that round the drunkard reel;
                How “Being” meaneth not to be;
                   to see and hear, smell, taste and feel.

                A drop in Ocean’s boundless tide,
                   unfathom’d waste of agony;
                Where millions live their horrid lives
                   by making other millions die.

                How with a heart that would through love
                   to Universal Love aspire,
                Man woos infernal chance to smite,
                   as Min’arets draw the Thunder-fire.

                How Earth on Earth builds tow’er and wall,
                   to crumble at a touch of Time;
                How Earth on Earth from Shînar-plain
                   the heights of Heaven fain would climb.

                How short this Life, how long withal;
                   how false its weal, how true its woes,
                This fever-fit with paroxysms
                   to mark its opening and its close.

                Ah! gay the day with shine of sun,
                   and bright the breeze, and blithe the throng
                Met on the River-bank to play,
                   when I was young, when I was young:

                Such general joy could never fade;
                   and yet the chilling whisper came
                One face had paled, one form had failed;
                   had fled the bank, had swum the stream;

                Still revellers danced, and sang, and trod
                   the hither bank of Time’s deep tide,
                Still one by one they left and fared
                   to the far misty thither side;

                And now the last hath slipt away
                   yon drear Death-desert to explore,
                And now one Pilgrim worn and lorn
                   still lingers on the lonely shore.

                Yes, Life in youth-tide standeth still;
                   in manhood streameth soft and slow;
                See, as it nears the ’abysmal goal
                   how fleet the waters flash and flow!

                And Deaths are twain; the Deaths we see
                   drop like the leaves in windy Fall;
                But ours, our own, are ruined worlds,
                   a globe collapst, last end of all.

                We live our lives with rogues and fools,
                   dead and alive, alive and dead,
                We die ’twixt one who feels the pulse
                   and one who frets and clouds the head:

                And,—oh, the Pity!—hardly conned
                   the lesson comes its fatal term;
                Fate bids us bundle up our books,
                   and bear them bod’ily to the worm:

                Hardly we learn to wield the blade
                   before the wrist grows stiff and old;
                Hardly we learn to ply the pen
                   ere Thought and Fancy faint with cold.

                Hardly we find the path of love,
                   to sink the self, forget the “I,”
                When sad suspicion grips the heart,
                   when Man, the Man begins to die:

                Hardly we scale the wisdom-heights,
                   and sight the Pisgah-scene around,
                And breathe the breath of heav’enly air,
                   and hear the Spheres’ harmonious sound;

                When swift the Camel-rider spans
                   the howling waste, by Kismet sped,
                And of his Magic Wand a wave
                   hurries the quick to join the dead.*

                   * Death in Arabia rides a Camel, not a pale horse.

                How sore the burden, strange the strife;
                   how full of splendour, wonder, fear;
                Life, atom of that Infinite Space
                   that stretcheth ’twixt the Here and There.

                How Thought is imp’otent to divine
                   the secret which the gods defend,
                The Why of birth and life and death,
                   that Isis-veil no hand may rend.

                Eternal Morrows make our Day;
                   our Is is aye to be till when
                Night closes in; ’tis all a dream,
                   and yet we die,—and then and THEN?

                And still the Weaver plies his loom,
                   whose warp and woof is wretched Man
                Weaving th’ unpattern’d dark design,
                   so dark we doubt it owns a plan.

                Dost not, O Maker, blush to hear,
                   amid the storm of tears and blood,
                Man say Thy mercy made what is,
                   and saw the made and said ’twas good?

                The marvel is that man can smile
                   dreaming his ghostly ghastly dream;-
                Better the heedless atomy
                   that buzzes in the morning beam!

                O the dread pathos of our lives!
                   how durst thou, Allah, thus to play
                With Love, Affection, Friendship, all
                   that shows the god in mortal clay?

                But ah! what ’vaileth man to mourn;
                   shall tears bring forth what smiles ne’er brought;
                Shall brooding breed a thought of joy?
                   Ah hush the sigh, forget the thought!

                Silence thine immemorial quest,
                   contain thy nature’s vain complaint
                None heeds, none cares for thee or thine;—
                   like thee how many came and went?

                Cease, Man, to mourn, to weep, to wail;
                   enjoy thy shining hour of sun;
                We dance along Death’s icy brink,
                   but is the dance less full of fun?

                IV

                What Truths hath gleaned that Sage consumed
                   by many a moon that waxt and waned?
                What Prophet-strain be his to sing?
                   What hath his old Experience gained?

                There is no God, no man-made God;
                   a bigger, stronger, crueller man;
                Black phantom of our baby-fears,
                   ere Thought, the life of Life, began.

                Right quoth the Hindu Prince of old,*
                   “An Ishwara for one I nill,
                Th’ almighty everlasting Good
                   who cannot ’bate th’ Eternal Ill:”

                   * Buddha.

                “Your gods may be, what shows they are?”
                   hear China’s Perfect Sage declare;*
                “And being, what to us be they
                   who dwell so darkly and so far?”

                   * Confucius.

                “All matter hath a birth and death;
                   ’tis made, unmade and made anew;
                “We choose to call the Maker ‘God’:—
                   such is the Zâhid’s owly view.

                “You changeful finite Creatures strain”
                   (rejoins the Drawer of the Wine)*
                “The dizzy depths of Inf’inite Power
                   to fathom with your foot of twine”;

                   * The Soofi or Gnostic opposed to the Zâhid.

                “Poor idols of man’s heart and head
                   with the Divine Idea to blend;
                “To preach as ‘Nature’s Common Course’
                   what any hour may shift or end.”

                “How shall the Shown pretend to ken
                   aught of the Showman or the Show?
                “Why meanly bargain to believe,
                   which only means thou ne’er canst know?

                “How may the passing Now contain
                   the standing Now—Eternity?—
                “An endless is without a was,
                   the be and never the to-be?
                “Who made your Maker? If Self-made,
                   why fare so far to fare the worse
                “Sufficeth not a world of worlds,
                   a self-made chain of universe?

                “Grant an Idea, Primal Cause,
                   the Causing Cause, why crave for more?
                “Why strive its depth and breadth to mete,
                   to trace its work, its aid to ’implore?

                “Unknown, Incomprehensible,
                   whate’er you choose to call it, call;
                “But leave it vague as airy space,
                   dark in its darkness mystical.

                “Your childish fears would seek a Sire,
                   by the non-human God defin’d,
                “What your five wits may wot ye weet;
                   what is you please to dub ‘design’d;’

                “You bring down Heav’en to vulgar Earth;
                   your maker like yourselves you make,
                “You quake to own a reign of Law,
                   you pray the Law its laws to break;

                “You pray, but hath your thought e’er weighed
                   how empty vain the prayer must be,
                “That begs a boon already giv’en,
                   or craves a change of law to see?

                “Say, Man, deep learnèd in the Scheme
                   that orders mysteries sublime,
                “How came it this was Jesus, that
                   was Judas from the birth of Time?

                “How I the tiger, thou the lamb;
                   again the Secret, prithee, show
                “Who slew the slain, bowman or bolt
                   or Fate that drave the man, the bow?

                “Man worships self: his God is Man;
                   the struggling of the mortal mind
                “To form its model as ’twould be,
                   the perfect of itself to find.

                “The God became sage, priest and scribe
                   where Nilus’ serpent made the vale;
                “A gloomy Brahm in glowing Ind,
                   a neutral something cold and pale:

                “Amid the high Chaldean hills
                   a moulder of the heavenly spheres;
                “On Guebre steppes the Timeless-God
                   who governs by his dual peers:

                “In Hebrew tents the Lord that led
                   His leprous slaves to fight and jar;
                “Yahveh,* Adon or Elohîm,
                   the God that smites, the Man of War.

                   * Jehovah.

                “The lovely Gods of lib’ertine Greece,
                   those fair and frail humanities
                “Whose homes o’erlook’d the Middle Sea,
                   where all Earth’s beauty cradled lies,

                “Ne’er left its blessèd bounds, nor sought
                   the barb’arous climes of barb’arous gods
                “Where Odin of the dreary North
                   o’er hog and sickly mead-cup nods:

                “And when, at length, ‘Great Pan is dead’
                   uprose the loud and dol’orous cry
                “A glamour wither’d on the ground,
                   a splendour faded in the sky.

                “Yea, Pan was dead, the Nazar’ene came
                   and seized his seat beneath the sun,
                “The votary of the Riddle-god,
                   whose one is three and three is one;

                “Whose sadd’ening creed of herited Sin
                   spilt o’er the world its cold grey spell;
                “In every vista showed a grave,
                   and ’neath the grave the glare of Hell;

                “Till all Life’s Po’esy sinks to prose;
                   romance to dull Real’ity fades;
                “Earth’s flush of gladness pales in gloom
                   and God again to man degrades.

                “Then the lank Arab foul with sweat,
                   the drainer of the camel’s dug,
                “Gorged with his leek-green lizard’s meat,
                   clad in his filthy rag and rug,

                “Bore his fierce Allah o’er his sands
                   and broke, like lava-burst upon
                “The realms where reigned pre-Adamite Kings,
                   where rose the Grand Kayânian throne.*

                   * Kayâni—of the race of Cyrus; old Guebre heroes.

                “Who now of ancient Kayomurs,
                   of Zâl or Rustam cares to sing,
                “Whelmed by the tempest of the tribes
                   that called the Camel-driver King?

                “Where are the crown of Kay Khusraw,
                   the sceptre of Anûshirwân,
                “The holy grail of high Jamshîd,
                   Afrâsiyab’s hall?—Canst tell me, man?

                “Gone, gone, where I and thou must go,
                   borne by the winnowing wings of Death,
                “The Horror brooding over life,
                   and nearer brought with every breath:

                “Their fame hath filled the Seven Climes,
                   they rose and reigned, they fought and fell,
                “As swells and swoons across the wold
                   the tinkling of the Camel’s bell.”

                V

                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.

                   * The Elephant.

                Earthquake and plague, storm, fight and fray,
                   portents and curses man must deem
                Since he regards his self alone,
                   nor cares to trace the scope, the scheme;

                The Quake that comes in eyelid’s beat
                   to ruin, level, ’gulf and kill,
                Builds up a world for better use,
                   to general Good bends special Ill:

                The dreadest sound man’s ear can hear,
                   the war and rush of stormy Wind
                Depures the stuff of human life,
                   breeds health and strength for humankind:

                What call ye them or Goods or Ills,
                   ill-goods, good-ills, a loss, a gain,
                When realms arise and falls a roof;
                   a world is won, a man is slain?

                And thus the race of Being runs,
                   till haply in the time to be
                Earth shifts her pole and Mushtari*-men
                   another falling star shall see:

                   * The Planet Jupiter.

                Shall see it fall and fade from sight,
                   whence come, where gone no Thought can tell,—
                Drink of yon mirage-stream and chase
                   the tinkling of the camel-bell!