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, 
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Death-bed o f 
poet.  Effec
t 
of body on 
mind.