THE CUP
179
ness has become fetid with the horrors of besiegement ,
the moats are
filled with
the
putrid
carcasses of an
unjust war ; fever
reigns , vice laughs , the inhabitants
starve , sucking
the
putrid
pus from
the
wounds
of
the dead , and devouring rats and other vermin .
Out
side
in the Camp of Vice , plague reigns and pestilence
rules ; yet if the summed evils of Virtue and Vice were
cast into the
balance of Truth , who dare say which
would
outweigh
the
other ?
Everyone
knows
the
degradation
as well as the
ennoblements of war ; the
former ever as some leprous brach licking at her heels
;
the latter a halo of sainthood to be cast o'er the skull
of the time-cleansed skeleton , which was once a spongy
mass of wriggling larvae .
During his
life
the
thief
stole ,
he
lied ,
and
he
cheated ;
pursued ,
he
was
caught , judged , and nailed to a cross , and in death
alone was
he promised
the
subconscious
longing
of
his life -
Paradise .
This duality of Virtue and Vice has rent the world ,
as
with
a sword , and
her garment
has
been
torn
asunder .
Some say “
this is mine ! ” others
" that is
mine ! ”
and
so
the
quarrel
rages .
Yet will they not
unite ? for the blending of Virtue and Vice
means
the
loss of some
supposed comfort ,
and
comfort
is
the
God of man's heart , the Vampire
which sucks
its
life
from his shrivelling
soul
.
In
laughter alone we shall never solve the riddle
of
life
,
only
in
the mingling
of
our smiles with our sobs
shall we realize the kiss
of
God on our brow
.
Yet the
dangers
are terrible
.
How many
of
us
can
listen
to
the
voice
of
Circe
without
becoming
swine
?
and
in
the
full
melancholy
of
so
vast
a
contemplation
,
the
poet sings
: