The Sword of Song

THE SWORD OF SONG 18 Each life bound over to the wheel72 Ay, and each being—we may guess Now that the very crystals feel !— For them no harp-reasounding court, No palm, no crown, but none the less A cross, be sure ! The worst man’s thought In hell itself, bereft of bliss, Were less unmerciful than this ! No ! for material things, I hear, Will burn away, and cease to be— (Nibbanna ! Ah ! Thou shoreless Sea !) Man, man alone, is doomed to fear, To suffer the eternal woe, Or else, to meet man’s subtle foe, God—and oh ! infamy of terror ! Be like him—like him ! And for ever ! At least I make not such an error : My soul must utterly dissever Its very silliest thought, belief, From such a God as possible, Its vilest from his worship. Never ! Avaunt, abominable chief Of Hate’s grim legions ; let me well Gird up my loins and make endeavour, And seek a refuge from my grief, O never in Heaven—but in Hell! “Oh, very well !” I think you say, “Wait only till your dying day ! See whether then you kiss the rod, And bow that proud soul down to God !” I perfectly admit the fact ; Quite likely that I so shall act ! Here’s why Creation jumps at prayer. You Christians quote me in a breath This, that, the other atheist’s death;73 How they sought God ! Of course ! Impair By just a touch of fever, chill, My health—where flies my vivid will? My carcase with quinine is crammed; I wish South India were damned ; I wish I had my mother’s nursing, Find precious little use in cursing, 620 625 630 635 640 645 650 655 Death-bed o f poet. Effec t of body on mind.