The Fear of DeathBk.III.vv. 883-1107, and Bk.III.vv. 9-30
Bk.III.vv. 883-1107, and Bk.III.vv. 9-30
Men’s Words and Thoughts on Death!One will denyHis and his dead body’s identity;Yet resent, as if slight to his own worth,Its rotting when deposited in earth;Flame’s outrage, devouring it with his goods;Beasts’, tearing it to pieces in the woods.His proud profession that he does not careFor his body’s plight—He will not be there—Rings false; he keeps, secreted in his heart,A nerve which aches, though flesh and feeling part.Not will self be root and branch so wrenched outAs that some still shall not be left about;For why contemplate else at all the lotOf the dead flesh he says concerns him not,Unless Self pities Self, and it hurts the SoulThat it and flesh make an ill-smelling whole?But, if strange that the sufferer thus madeTo stand by, share the cruel insult paidThe carcase, being flesh and spirit, one,Though feigned to feel, by now is past and gone,And as Nothingness cannot feel it illFor brutes to maul it, is not stranger stillThe impulse rather to exult than mournWhen men foresee they shall hereafter burnUpon a grand funeral pyre, or lieMummies, stifled, frozen, alternately,On polished slabs of marble, or be hid,Crushed beneath a mountainous pyramid!You grieve: “No more will echoes of your feetReach home; no wife and children run to greetYour glad return, and vie for the first kiss,Flooding a heart, too full for speech, with bliss;No more for dear ones will you watch and store;Be their armour, and citadel no more;—Oh! that one day, cruel, accursed, should spoil,The harvesting of a whole lifetime’s toil!”But in these sighs, what cause will you have shownFor real tribulation of your own?Rather will not the death that you bewailBe happy ending of a fairy tale?Reduce your cries to words; and they will clearAway a grievance, and assuage a fear.To fall asleep at a fair life’s fair close,And thence till Time shall cease enjoy repose—Where hardship?If it be to leave behindBoundless sorrow to kindred, ease your mind;The ash-pale face on the funeral pile,Far from forbidding kindly souls to smile,Stands for rest rewarding labour, releaseFrom accidents of fortune’s blind caprice!Folly again, when banqueters recline,Brows roses-wreathed, cups in their hands, the wineAt their hearts, and—“brief harvest this of joyFor us poor things”, they cry; “the hour employ!What is is ours; for use; not to recall!”As if of death’s ills, if any, of allChief were to think of feasting in the past,Feel in the hand the wine cup, and not taste!Mere slumber will the night from day divide,And brush life’s merriment and cares aside.Death has infinite force to put asleepBody and Mind, and how can men then keepFrom craving the fuller, they being one?Is not Death Sleep, but a sleep going on,On eternally—more complete again,While it lasts, than the sleep of living men?Sleep in its own true nature does not quitIts hold so far of sense as to unfitA wakened subject to collect his powersFor the due service of his working hours.Much less—if nought with something may compare—Than busy life’s in slumber, is Death’s careFor Self! Death owes no duty unto life,Its joys and griefs, its harmony and strife;Dissolves as if intent to negativeThe utmost art of builder to revive.Did ever man re-tread his native landOn whom Death once has laid his icy hand?Yet living men will counterfeit a woeFor loss that in their graves they cannot know!Well Nature losing patience might expressHerself in plain reproof of fussiness:“What ails the man? Why all this waste of breathIn fond anger at the approach of Death?Did all thy days in unmixed misery pass?No drop of pleasure moisten the cracked glass?If satiety the fault, better, Guest,Fly a feast too hospitable, and rest.Since the offence a glut of life, the wasteIs the worse the longer the life shall last.Why live, when, as each hour is born, and dies,You read its curses in lack-lustre eyes?Off with yourself; nought fresh can I invent;You’ve sampled my whole stock; my wits are spent!”You object: “Your years few; body not chillOr withered with age; your joints supple still?”True, I dare say: yet though you should defyWhole centuries to kill—nay, never die—Nature endures; all would be stale to you!—Plead guilty; for you know the charge is true.Call next appellant—one advanced in years,Who meets Death’s advent with protesting tears.Would not Nature have reason on her side,If high She raised her voice to scold and chide:“Begone! bad jester, peak and pule elsewhere!I will not stand your sickly groanings here.What if, when, as your head you laid just nowOn the pillow, thinking nought else than howEmpty you were, hungering for rich fare,Death entered, bidding you forthwith prepareTo follow! You may call it hard, unkindOf the many years which left you behind,Drift-weed, ashore cast by the downward flow,Unsatisfied, forlorn,—But wherefore so?Did I not range careers for you to choose—This, that—a crowd—while you, from fear to loseA better, let all go?At last be sage;And cut ambition short to suit your age;Accept complacently the golden rule—What must be must be—kick; and die a fool!”Nature is right to rate a worthless son,Though She may find use for him later on.A battered thing like that, long past its prime,Rusted and cankered with unlovely grime,Out of shape and fashion, is good enoughTo feed Creation’s furnace with the stuffIt is ever craving, supply of freshMaterial of mortal mind and flesh.You need not be afraid that you, poor Clown,Will—deserve as you may—be shovelled downInto a bottomless pit, or consignedTo Hell, as sport for devils there confined.How unless from old clay could new be born?Dust we were, and must, dust to dust, return;Millions before have fallen to it; thusWill numberless worse, better, fall like us!New pots from old—just that is Nature’s view;Still the old stuff, although the style be new.—And Man the stuff; no scrap of Self his own;Nothing fee simple; all on lease, or loan!So complain not, as if to strike awayFrom life ere extreme age, if then, a dayWere robbery. We have, all grant, no rightO’er the past; Nature, keeping this in sight,Inquires what better title then have weTo stake out a claim in futurity.Past—no beginning—future—no end—are one;Neither heeds when Man comes; when he is gone;And you—when time casts you out, why lament,More than its neglect in the old descent?For grievances a fairer you might chooseIn the undue postponement of repose.Sleep is prized as a respite from Earth’s strife,Yet is checkered by dreams that mimic life;And death loathed as carrion bird of air,Though sleep’s original, with no nightmare!But, perhaps, not delights of life so muchYou grieve to lose as that to quit your touchUpon life, is to leave you face to faceWith Hell’s Powers, and at their cruel grace.Dread not; whatever penalties you oweYou will pay to the full, but not Below.Hell’s horrors are mere bugbears; and, as they,Shadows from the realities of day;Warnings as well.In no drear realm beneathWanders Tantalus, with fear-frozen breathLest the huge rock shall snap the slender thread,And thunder down upon his helpless head.It is a parable. The weight of cares,The uncertainties in human affairs—These men attribute to the wrath of God;Charging Heaven with strokes from Fortune’s rod.Never huge Tityos lay chained uponTorturing bank of pitchy Acheron.Had such monster lived, and his writhing bulkPaved, no mere nine acres, a guilt-logged hulk,But the whole Earth’s circle, neither he couldSupply vultures groping his breast for food,Nor his nerves endure ages of the strainOf waiting, with the everlasting pain.The crazed lover in whose heart desire delves,And lust gnaws, is Tityos for ourselves.Look; spy you not passions everywhereMounting red-billed from entrails to the air?Not in Hell is the stone pushed up, that willFoil Sisyphus by rolling down the hill.’Tis our Office-badges we see each yearCandidates praying, buying leave to wear—Ungrateful burden—and worse, after all,Not be licensed to be the people’s thrall!The Danaids again; who could in truthBelieve that in despite of bridal ruthFifty girls, save one, would shed forth a flood,At their father’s dictate, of kindred blood,Or, if so, have paid for the deed in HellBy drawing, in cracked pitchers, from a well?Myth ill planned; but ponder it he who feedsCross-grained diseases of the soul, ill weeds,That usurp life’s field, and divert the gazeFrom joys that might be his for many days,To outbursts as self-mocking as the freakOf pouring water into jars that leak.Cerberus too, the Furies, and the gloomSteaming from black Cocytus, and the boomOf Tartarus, flames and shrieks, horrors seenBy none but bards. They never could have been;Yet such were, are, will be, at our own hearth,So long as wrong is rampant on the Earth.Thriving guilt is haunted. As if to mockIts rise, is hurled from the Tarpeian rock,Shivers in dungeons, is scourged, branded, allTo stamp sin’s end, and emphasize pride’s fall.If Justice often lags, alas, to findFit chastisement for crime, and may seem blind,Conscience is keener-sighted; and its goadAnd whip spare not; no mercy for the load.How cheered would be the sinner could he thinkDying cleared accounts; he had but to sinkIn death, and the weight dropped? Part of his curseIs that fancy paints future torments worse.The Wise assure him Hell is not; in vain;Life, his, is Hell; Eternity of pain.To wrongdoers and wronged too brief a spaceHuman life has seemed to avenge a raceOn heinous crimes against it; hence rose Dis,Balanced by Elysian fields of bliss.But you, the Multitude, why are you sadThat life is short, you, neither good, nor bad?Is it not for an ordinary manAudacious to complain how short his span,When, Ancus, with his royal work to do,Closed his eyes on light, younger than are you?Other kings, and lords many, in the prideOf life, who ruled great nations since have died.By a sudden treason He breathed his lastWho paved a road by which his legions passedO’er the sea’s salt pools, scornful of the roarAs foot and horsemen crossed from shore to shore.Scipio, thunderbolt of war, at whomCarthage shuddered, messenger of her doom,Gave his bones without protest to the graveAs much of course as if a scullion slave.Did they who trained the energies of mindTo serve, and exalt, or please, humankind,Pioneered in the Sciences to armAgainst gross Dulness, and by Arts to charm,Repine when the summons came to leave off,And not echo it with a glad “Enough”!Ministers of the Muses, with the rest,Peerless Homer, by all their king confessed,Raised not a single murmur, did not pleadFor one song more before they joined the dead.Democritus, not stooping to complain,When he missed the old readiness of brain,Stayed for no rougher monitors of age;Spared death the toil of posting the last stage,When the sun arises the stars that shoneIn high Heaven, leave it to flame alone.Epicurus was the sun; in his lightWisdom of other men became as night,His page tracks life to its source; there the wholeIs moulded by this father of the soul.Mortal being is a medley; but as bees,Ranging up and down, among flow’rs and trees,In a woodland glade, sip everywhere,Scorning nothing suckled by sunny air,And turn all to honey, so his wise penTransmutes words into golden sweets for men.As his thought wells up from a mind divine,Terrors bred of animal blood resignTheir hold, world’s walls crumble in dust away,I see in light clearer than that of dayEarth—above it, through it; but nought to tellOf an Under-world, torture-jail of Hell.Heaven stands revealed; the Gods’ quiet home,Where nor clouds, nor rain and snow-storms dare come,And in large air they breathe immortally,Unknowing sin or grief, content to Be.Ah! the debt that I owe, joy mixed with awe,For all I learned through him of Nature’s law!If lives stretched for goodness, well might his vieFor an exemption from the rule to die;Nothing more certain, as his light grew dim,Than his waiver of it, if pressed on him.And You make a fuss at death, fret and fume,When how does your life differ from a tomb?You rid yourself of half of it in sleep;For the other half, when you think you keepAwake, bemused you yawn and snore, a preyTo sick nightmares although it is broad day,Chief of your evils being that you failTo extort from them what it is you ail.Cruel the weight, you cry, upon your breast;It wears you out, and robs you of your rest.Seek whence it came, and by what right it tookYou for pack-horse, and why it is you brookThe burden; put it, put your brain and heartTo the question. When you and Reason part,The nightmare will be gone, and you will findYou have regained possession of your mind.Ignorance of Causes;—that is the mainVirus in the pest of which you complain.You rush about with it, are discontentTo return no sounder than when you went.Ho! to the villa from the house in Town—As driving a fire engine—headlong down.Doze; with the fury that you galloped down,Gallop up, just to sup alone in Town!Why! to escape yourself—from whom, be sure,You cannot flee out of whatever door.Yourself you loathe for sickness!And its Cause?None else than being blind to Nature’s laws.Life-in-death—it fleets! Moments its concern;Yet in them what may not a mortal learn!Study those laws, I say; they keep the keyOf the Universe and Eternity;The clue to what hereafter shall be madeOf this stuff in which, men, we masquerade.Take to heart my counsel; do not from fearFor life, shun ills your duty is to bear.The end’s stamped on each mortal lot by Fate;No human force avails to change the date.And why crave to live on? You’ll find nought new;Nothing but the old objects to pursue;No fresh joys from life to be hammered; justBattered failures, and savouring of dust.We covet years, in the hope that they willBe generous beyond the past, and still,Although they be, hope, covet, as at first;So wide-mouthed faith; so unquenchable thirst!Never does it occur to you to glanceAt Fortune’s caprices, the whims of Chance,To reflect that, if added, years will not,Whatever the number, affect one jotThe accounts between life and death.No strifeCan be, infinite Death with finite Life.What that called “Death”? A sea beyond, before;Boundless, everlasting; no port, no shore.And “Life”? An accident. Whether at birth it fall,Or in a thousand years, concerns not Death at all!
Men’s Words and Thoughts on Death!One will denyHis and his dead body’s identity;Yet resent, as if slight to his own worth,Its rotting when deposited in earth;Flame’s outrage, devouring it with his goods;Beasts’, tearing it to pieces in the woods.His proud profession that he does not careFor his body’s plight—He will not be there—Rings false; he keeps, secreted in his heart,A nerve which aches, though flesh and feeling part.Not will self be root and branch so wrenched outAs that some still shall not be left about;For why contemplate else at all the lotOf the dead flesh he says concerns him not,Unless Self pities Self, and it hurts the SoulThat it and flesh make an ill-smelling whole?But, if strange that the sufferer thus madeTo stand by, share the cruel insult paidThe carcase, being flesh and spirit, one,Though feigned to feel, by now is past and gone,And as Nothingness cannot feel it illFor brutes to maul it, is not stranger stillThe impulse rather to exult than mournWhen men foresee they shall hereafter burnUpon a grand funeral pyre, or lieMummies, stifled, frozen, alternately,On polished slabs of marble, or be hid,Crushed beneath a mountainous pyramid!You grieve: “No more will echoes of your feetReach home; no wife and children run to greetYour glad return, and vie for the first kiss,Flooding a heart, too full for speech, with bliss;No more for dear ones will you watch and store;Be their armour, and citadel no more;—Oh! that one day, cruel, accursed, should spoil,The harvesting of a whole lifetime’s toil!”But in these sighs, what cause will you have shownFor real tribulation of your own?Rather will not the death that you bewailBe happy ending of a fairy tale?Reduce your cries to words; and they will clearAway a grievance, and assuage a fear.To fall asleep at a fair life’s fair close,And thence till Time shall cease enjoy repose—Where hardship?If it be to leave behindBoundless sorrow to kindred, ease your mind;The ash-pale face on the funeral pile,Far from forbidding kindly souls to smile,Stands for rest rewarding labour, releaseFrom accidents of fortune’s blind caprice!Folly again, when banqueters recline,Brows roses-wreathed, cups in their hands, the wineAt their hearts, and—“brief harvest this of joyFor us poor things”, they cry; “the hour employ!What is is ours; for use; not to recall!”As if of death’s ills, if any, of allChief were to think of feasting in the past,Feel in the hand the wine cup, and not taste!Mere slumber will the night from day divide,And brush life’s merriment and cares aside.Death has infinite force to put asleepBody and Mind, and how can men then keepFrom craving the fuller, they being one?Is not Death Sleep, but a sleep going on,On eternally—more complete again,While it lasts, than the sleep of living men?Sleep in its own true nature does not quitIts hold so far of sense as to unfitA wakened subject to collect his powersFor the due service of his working hours.Much less—if nought with something may compare—Than busy life’s in slumber, is Death’s careFor Self! Death owes no duty unto life,Its joys and griefs, its harmony and strife;Dissolves as if intent to negativeThe utmost art of builder to revive.Did ever man re-tread his native landOn whom Death once has laid his icy hand?Yet living men will counterfeit a woeFor loss that in their graves they cannot know!Well Nature losing patience might expressHerself in plain reproof of fussiness:“What ails the man? Why all this waste of breathIn fond anger at the approach of Death?Did all thy days in unmixed misery pass?No drop of pleasure moisten the cracked glass?If satiety the fault, better, Guest,Fly a feast too hospitable, and rest.Since the offence a glut of life, the wasteIs the worse the longer the life shall last.Why live, when, as each hour is born, and dies,You read its curses in lack-lustre eyes?Off with yourself; nought fresh can I invent;You’ve sampled my whole stock; my wits are spent!”You object: “Your years few; body not chillOr withered with age; your joints supple still?”True, I dare say: yet though you should defyWhole centuries to kill—nay, never die—Nature endures; all would be stale to you!—Plead guilty; for you know the charge is true.Call next appellant—one advanced in years,Who meets Death’s advent with protesting tears.Would not Nature have reason on her side,If high She raised her voice to scold and chide:“Begone! bad jester, peak and pule elsewhere!I will not stand your sickly groanings here.What if, when, as your head you laid just nowOn the pillow, thinking nought else than howEmpty you were, hungering for rich fare,Death entered, bidding you forthwith prepareTo follow! You may call it hard, unkindOf the many years which left you behind,Drift-weed, ashore cast by the downward flow,Unsatisfied, forlorn,—But wherefore so?Did I not range careers for you to choose—This, that—a crowd—while you, from fear to loseA better, let all go?At last be sage;And cut ambition short to suit your age;Accept complacently the golden rule—What must be must be—kick; and die a fool!”Nature is right to rate a worthless son,Though She may find use for him later on.A battered thing like that, long past its prime,Rusted and cankered with unlovely grime,Out of shape and fashion, is good enoughTo feed Creation’s furnace with the stuffIt is ever craving, supply of freshMaterial of mortal mind and flesh.You need not be afraid that you, poor Clown,Will—deserve as you may—be shovelled downInto a bottomless pit, or consignedTo Hell, as sport for devils there confined.How unless from old clay could new be born?Dust we were, and must, dust to dust, return;Millions before have fallen to it; thusWill numberless worse, better, fall like us!New pots from old—just that is Nature’s view;Still the old stuff, although the style be new.—And Man the stuff; no scrap of Self his own;Nothing fee simple; all on lease, or loan!So complain not, as if to strike awayFrom life ere extreme age, if then, a dayWere robbery. We have, all grant, no rightO’er the past; Nature, keeping this in sight,Inquires what better title then have weTo stake out a claim in futurity.Past—no beginning—future—no end—are one;Neither heeds when Man comes; when he is gone;And you—when time casts you out, why lament,More than its neglect in the old descent?For grievances a fairer you might chooseIn the undue postponement of repose.Sleep is prized as a respite from Earth’s strife,Yet is checkered by dreams that mimic life;And death loathed as carrion bird of air,Though sleep’s original, with no nightmare!But, perhaps, not delights of life so muchYou grieve to lose as that to quit your touchUpon life, is to leave you face to faceWith Hell’s Powers, and at their cruel grace.Dread not; whatever penalties you oweYou will pay to the full, but not Below.Hell’s horrors are mere bugbears; and, as they,Shadows from the realities of day;Warnings as well.In no drear realm beneathWanders Tantalus, with fear-frozen breathLest the huge rock shall snap the slender thread,And thunder down upon his helpless head.It is a parable. The weight of cares,The uncertainties in human affairs—These men attribute to the wrath of God;Charging Heaven with strokes from Fortune’s rod.Never huge Tityos lay chained uponTorturing bank of pitchy Acheron.Had such monster lived, and his writhing bulkPaved, no mere nine acres, a guilt-logged hulk,But the whole Earth’s circle, neither he couldSupply vultures groping his breast for food,Nor his nerves endure ages of the strainOf waiting, with the everlasting pain.The crazed lover in whose heart desire delves,And lust gnaws, is Tityos for ourselves.Look; spy you not passions everywhereMounting red-billed from entrails to the air?Not in Hell is the stone pushed up, that willFoil Sisyphus by rolling down the hill.’Tis our Office-badges we see each yearCandidates praying, buying leave to wear—Ungrateful burden—and worse, after all,Not be licensed to be the people’s thrall!The Danaids again; who could in truthBelieve that in despite of bridal ruthFifty girls, save one, would shed forth a flood,At their father’s dictate, of kindred blood,Or, if so, have paid for the deed in HellBy drawing, in cracked pitchers, from a well?Myth ill planned; but ponder it he who feedsCross-grained diseases of the soul, ill weeds,That usurp life’s field, and divert the gazeFrom joys that might be his for many days,To outbursts as self-mocking as the freakOf pouring water into jars that leak.Cerberus too, the Furies, and the gloomSteaming from black Cocytus, and the boomOf Tartarus, flames and shrieks, horrors seenBy none but bards. They never could have been;Yet such were, are, will be, at our own hearth,So long as wrong is rampant on the Earth.Thriving guilt is haunted. As if to mockIts rise, is hurled from the Tarpeian rock,Shivers in dungeons, is scourged, branded, allTo stamp sin’s end, and emphasize pride’s fall.If Justice often lags, alas, to findFit chastisement for crime, and may seem blind,Conscience is keener-sighted; and its goadAnd whip spare not; no mercy for the load.How cheered would be the sinner could he thinkDying cleared accounts; he had but to sinkIn death, and the weight dropped? Part of his curseIs that fancy paints future torments worse.The Wise assure him Hell is not; in vain;Life, his, is Hell; Eternity of pain.To wrongdoers and wronged too brief a spaceHuman life has seemed to avenge a raceOn heinous crimes against it; hence rose Dis,Balanced by Elysian fields of bliss.But you, the Multitude, why are you sadThat life is short, you, neither good, nor bad?Is it not for an ordinary manAudacious to complain how short his span,When, Ancus, with his royal work to do,Closed his eyes on light, younger than are you?Other kings, and lords many, in the prideOf life, who ruled great nations since have died.By a sudden treason He breathed his lastWho paved a road by which his legions passedO’er the sea’s salt pools, scornful of the roarAs foot and horsemen crossed from shore to shore.Scipio, thunderbolt of war, at whomCarthage shuddered, messenger of her doom,Gave his bones without protest to the graveAs much of course as if a scullion slave.Did they who trained the energies of mindTo serve, and exalt, or please, humankind,Pioneered in the Sciences to armAgainst gross Dulness, and by Arts to charm,Repine when the summons came to leave off,And not echo it with a glad “Enough”!Ministers of the Muses, with the rest,Peerless Homer, by all their king confessed,Raised not a single murmur, did not pleadFor one song more before they joined the dead.Democritus, not stooping to complain,When he missed the old readiness of brain,Stayed for no rougher monitors of age;Spared death the toil of posting the last stage,When the sun arises the stars that shoneIn high Heaven, leave it to flame alone.Epicurus was the sun; in his lightWisdom of other men became as night,His page tracks life to its source; there the wholeIs moulded by this father of the soul.Mortal being is a medley; but as bees,Ranging up and down, among flow’rs and trees,In a woodland glade, sip everywhere,Scorning nothing suckled by sunny air,And turn all to honey, so his wise penTransmutes words into golden sweets for men.As his thought wells up from a mind divine,Terrors bred of animal blood resignTheir hold, world’s walls crumble in dust away,I see in light clearer than that of dayEarth—above it, through it; but nought to tellOf an Under-world, torture-jail of Hell.Heaven stands revealed; the Gods’ quiet home,Where nor clouds, nor rain and snow-storms dare come,And in large air they breathe immortally,Unknowing sin or grief, content to Be.Ah! the debt that I owe, joy mixed with awe,For all I learned through him of Nature’s law!If lives stretched for goodness, well might his vieFor an exemption from the rule to die;Nothing more certain, as his light grew dim,Than his waiver of it, if pressed on him.And You make a fuss at death, fret and fume,When how does your life differ from a tomb?You rid yourself of half of it in sleep;For the other half, when you think you keepAwake, bemused you yawn and snore, a preyTo sick nightmares although it is broad day,Chief of your evils being that you failTo extort from them what it is you ail.Cruel the weight, you cry, upon your breast;It wears you out, and robs you of your rest.Seek whence it came, and by what right it tookYou for pack-horse, and why it is you brookThe burden; put it, put your brain and heartTo the question. When you and Reason part,The nightmare will be gone, and you will findYou have regained possession of your mind.Ignorance of Causes;—that is the mainVirus in the pest of which you complain.You rush about with it, are discontentTo return no sounder than when you went.Ho! to the villa from the house in Town—As driving a fire engine—headlong down.Doze; with the fury that you galloped down,Gallop up, just to sup alone in Town!Why! to escape yourself—from whom, be sure,You cannot flee out of whatever door.Yourself you loathe for sickness!And its Cause?None else than being blind to Nature’s laws.Life-in-death—it fleets! Moments its concern;Yet in them what may not a mortal learn!Study those laws, I say; they keep the keyOf the Universe and Eternity;The clue to what hereafter shall be madeOf this stuff in which, men, we masquerade.Take to heart my counsel; do not from fearFor life, shun ills your duty is to bear.The end’s stamped on each mortal lot by Fate;No human force avails to change the date.And why crave to live on? You’ll find nought new;Nothing but the old objects to pursue;No fresh joys from life to be hammered; justBattered failures, and savouring of dust.We covet years, in the hope that they willBe generous beyond the past, and still,Although they be, hope, covet, as at first;So wide-mouthed faith; so unquenchable thirst!Never does it occur to you to glanceAt Fortune’s caprices, the whims of Chance,To reflect that, if added, years will not,Whatever the number, affect one jotThe accounts between life and death.No strifeCan be, infinite Death with finite Life.What that called “Death”? A sea beyond, before;Boundless, everlasting; no port, no shore.And “Life”? An accident. Whether at birth it fall,Or in a thousand years, concerns not Death at all!
Men’s Words and Thoughts on Death!One will denyHis and his dead body’s identity;Yet resent, as if slight to his own worth,Its rotting when deposited in earth;Flame’s outrage, devouring it with his goods;Beasts’, tearing it to pieces in the woods.His proud profession that he does not careFor his body’s plight—He will not be there—Rings false; he keeps, secreted in his heart,A nerve which aches, though flesh and feeling part.Not will self be root and branch so wrenched outAs that some still shall not be left about;For why contemplate else at all the lotOf the dead flesh he says concerns him not,Unless Self pities Self, and it hurts the SoulThat it and flesh make an ill-smelling whole?But, if strange that the sufferer thus madeTo stand by, share the cruel insult paidThe carcase, being flesh and spirit, one,Though feigned to feel, by now is past and gone,And as Nothingness cannot feel it illFor brutes to maul it, is not stranger stillThe impulse rather to exult than mournWhen men foresee they shall hereafter burnUpon a grand funeral pyre, or lieMummies, stifled, frozen, alternately,On polished slabs of marble, or be hid,Crushed beneath a mountainous pyramid!You grieve: “No more will echoes of your feetReach home; no wife and children run to greetYour glad return, and vie for the first kiss,Flooding a heart, too full for speech, with bliss;No more for dear ones will you watch and store;Be their armour, and citadel no more;—Oh! that one day, cruel, accursed, should spoil,The harvesting of a whole lifetime’s toil!”But in these sighs, what cause will you have shownFor real tribulation of your own?Rather will not the death that you bewailBe happy ending of a fairy tale?Reduce your cries to words; and they will clearAway a grievance, and assuage a fear.To fall asleep at a fair life’s fair close,And thence till Time shall cease enjoy repose—Where hardship?If it be to leave behindBoundless sorrow to kindred, ease your mind;The ash-pale face on the funeral pile,Far from forbidding kindly souls to smile,Stands for rest rewarding labour, releaseFrom accidents of fortune’s blind caprice!Folly again, when banqueters recline,Brows roses-wreathed, cups in their hands, the wineAt their hearts, and—“brief harvest this of joyFor us poor things”, they cry; “the hour employ!What is is ours; for use; not to recall!”As if of death’s ills, if any, of allChief were to think of feasting in the past,Feel in the hand the wine cup, and not taste!
Men’s Words and Thoughts on Death!
One will deny
His and his dead body’s identity;
Yet resent, as if slight to his own worth,
Its rotting when deposited in earth;
Flame’s outrage, devouring it with his goods;
Beasts’, tearing it to pieces in the woods.
His proud profession that he does not care
For his body’s plight—He will not be there—
Rings false; he keeps, secreted in his heart,
A nerve which aches, though flesh and feeling part.
Not will self be root and branch so wrenched out
As that some still shall not be left about;
For why contemplate else at all the lot
Of the dead flesh he says concerns him not,
Unless Self pities Self, and it hurts the Soul
That it and flesh make an ill-smelling whole?
But, if strange that the sufferer thus made
To stand by, share the cruel insult paid
The carcase, being flesh and spirit, one,
Though feigned to feel, by now is past and gone,
And as Nothingness cannot feel it ill
For brutes to maul it, is not stranger still
The impulse rather to exult than mourn
When men foresee they shall hereafter burn
Upon a grand funeral pyre, or lie
Mummies, stifled, frozen, alternately,
On polished slabs of marble, or be hid,
Crushed beneath a mountainous pyramid!
You grieve: “No more will echoes of your feet
Reach home; no wife and children run to greet
Your glad return, and vie for the first kiss,
Flooding a heart, too full for speech, with bliss;
No more for dear ones will you watch and store;
Be their armour, and citadel no more;—
Oh! that one day, cruel, accursed, should spoil,
The harvesting of a whole lifetime’s toil!”
But in these sighs, what cause will you have shown
For real tribulation of your own?
Rather will not the death that you bewail
Be happy ending of a fairy tale?
Reduce your cries to words; and they will clear
Away a grievance, and assuage a fear.
To fall asleep at a fair life’s fair close,
And thence till Time shall cease enjoy repose—
Where hardship?
If it be to leave behind
Boundless sorrow to kindred, ease your mind;
The ash-pale face on the funeral pile,
Far from forbidding kindly souls to smile,
Stands for rest rewarding labour, release
From accidents of fortune’s blind caprice!
Folly again, when banqueters recline,
Brows roses-wreathed, cups in their hands, the wine
At their hearts, and—“brief harvest this of joy
For us poor things”, they cry; “the hour employ!
What is is ours; for use; not to recall!”
As if of death’s ills, if any, of all
Chief were to think of feasting in the past,
Feel in the hand the wine cup, and not taste!
Mere slumber will the night from day divide,And brush life’s merriment and cares aside.Death has infinite force to put asleepBody and Mind, and how can men then keepFrom craving the fuller, they being one?Is not Death Sleep, but a sleep going on,On eternally—more complete again,While it lasts, than the sleep of living men?Sleep in its own true nature does not quitIts hold so far of sense as to unfitA wakened subject to collect his powersFor the due service of his working hours.Much less—if nought with something may compare—Than busy life’s in slumber, is Death’s careFor Self! Death owes no duty unto life,Its joys and griefs, its harmony and strife;Dissolves as if intent to negativeThe utmost art of builder to revive.Did ever man re-tread his native landOn whom Death once has laid his icy hand?Yet living men will counterfeit a woeFor loss that in their graves they cannot know!Well Nature losing patience might expressHerself in plain reproof of fussiness:“What ails the man? Why all this waste of breathIn fond anger at the approach of Death?Did all thy days in unmixed misery pass?No drop of pleasure moisten the cracked glass?If satiety the fault, better, Guest,Fly a feast too hospitable, and rest.Since the offence a glut of life, the wasteIs the worse the longer the life shall last.Why live, when, as each hour is born, and dies,You read its curses in lack-lustre eyes?Off with yourself; nought fresh can I invent;You’ve sampled my whole stock; my wits are spent!”You object: “Your years few; body not chillOr withered with age; your joints supple still?”True, I dare say: yet though you should defyWhole centuries to kill—nay, never die—Nature endures; all would be stale to you!—Plead guilty; for you know the charge is true.Call next appellant—one advanced in years,Who meets Death’s advent with protesting tears.Would not Nature have reason on her side,If high She raised her voice to scold and chide:“Begone! bad jester, peak and pule elsewhere!I will not stand your sickly groanings here.What if, when, as your head you laid just nowOn the pillow, thinking nought else than howEmpty you were, hungering for rich fare,Death entered, bidding you forthwith prepareTo follow! You may call it hard, unkindOf the many years which left you behind,Drift-weed, ashore cast by the downward flow,Unsatisfied, forlorn,—But wherefore so?Did I not range careers for you to choose—This, that—a crowd—while you, from fear to loseA better, let all go?At last be sage;And cut ambition short to suit your age;Accept complacently the golden rule—What must be must be—kick; and die a fool!”
Mere slumber will the night from day divide,
And brush life’s merriment and cares aside.
Death has infinite force to put asleep
Body and Mind, and how can men then keep
From craving the fuller, they being one?
Is not Death Sleep, but a sleep going on,
On eternally—more complete again,
While it lasts, than the sleep of living men?
Sleep in its own true nature does not quit
Its hold so far of sense as to unfit
A wakened subject to collect his powers
For the due service of his working hours.
Much less—if nought with something may compare—
Than busy life’s in slumber, is Death’s care
For Self! Death owes no duty unto life,
Its joys and griefs, its harmony and strife;
Dissolves as if intent to negative
The utmost art of builder to revive.
Did ever man re-tread his native land
On whom Death once has laid his icy hand?
Yet living men will counterfeit a woe
For loss that in their graves they cannot know!
Well Nature losing patience might express
Herself in plain reproof of fussiness:
“What ails the man? Why all this waste of breath
In fond anger at the approach of Death?
Did all thy days in unmixed misery pass?
No drop of pleasure moisten the cracked glass?
If satiety the fault, better, Guest,
Fly a feast too hospitable, and rest.
Since the offence a glut of life, the waste
Is the worse the longer the life shall last.
Why live, when, as each hour is born, and dies,
You read its curses in lack-lustre eyes?
Off with yourself; nought fresh can I invent;
You’ve sampled my whole stock; my wits are spent!”
You object: “Your years few; body not chill
Or withered with age; your joints supple still?”
True, I dare say: yet though you should defy
Whole centuries to kill—nay, never die—
Nature endures; all would be stale to you!—
Plead guilty; for you know the charge is true.
Call next appellant—one advanced in years,
Who meets Death’s advent with protesting tears.
Would not Nature have reason on her side,
If high She raised her voice to scold and chide:
“Begone! bad jester, peak and pule elsewhere!
I will not stand your sickly groanings here.
What if, when, as your head you laid just now
On the pillow, thinking nought else than how
Empty you were, hungering for rich fare,
Death entered, bidding you forthwith prepare
To follow! You may call it hard, unkind
Of the many years which left you behind,
Drift-weed, ashore cast by the downward flow,
Unsatisfied, forlorn,
—But wherefore so?
Did I not range careers for you to choose—
This, that—a crowd—while you, from fear to lose
A better, let all go?
At last be sage;
And cut ambition short to suit your age;
Accept complacently the golden rule—
What must be must be—
kick; and die a fool!”
Nature is right to rate a worthless son,Though She may find use for him later on.A battered thing like that, long past its prime,Rusted and cankered with unlovely grime,Out of shape and fashion, is good enoughTo feed Creation’s furnace with the stuffIt is ever craving, supply of freshMaterial of mortal mind and flesh.You need not be afraid that you, poor Clown,Will—deserve as you may—be shovelled downInto a bottomless pit, or consignedTo Hell, as sport for devils there confined.How unless from old clay could new be born?Dust we were, and must, dust to dust, return;Millions before have fallen to it; thusWill numberless worse, better, fall like us!New pots from old—just that is Nature’s view;Still the old stuff, although the style be new.—And Man the stuff; no scrap of Self his own;Nothing fee simple; all on lease, or loan!
Nature is right to rate a worthless son,
Though She may find use for him later on.
A battered thing like that, long past its prime,
Rusted and cankered with unlovely grime,
Out of shape and fashion, is good enough
To feed Creation’s furnace with the stuff
It is ever craving, supply of fresh
Material of mortal mind and flesh.
You need not be afraid that you, poor Clown,
Will—deserve as you may—be shovelled down
Into a bottomless pit, or consigned
To Hell, as sport for devils there confined.
How unless from old clay could new be born?
Dust we were, and must, dust to dust, return;
Millions before have fallen to it; thus
Will numberless worse, better, fall like us!
New pots from old—
just that is Nature’s view;
Still the old stuff, although the style be new.
—And Man the stuff; no scrap of Self his own;
Nothing fee simple; all on lease, or loan!
So complain not, as if to strike awayFrom life ere extreme age, if then, a dayWere robbery. We have, all grant, no rightO’er the past; Nature, keeping this in sight,Inquires what better title then have weTo stake out a claim in futurity.Past—no beginning—future—no end—are one;Neither heeds when Man comes; when he is gone;And you—when time casts you out, why lament,More than its neglect in the old descent?For grievances a fairer you might chooseIn the undue postponement of repose.Sleep is prized as a respite from Earth’s strife,Yet is checkered by dreams that mimic life;And death loathed as carrion bird of air,Though sleep’s original, with no nightmare!But, perhaps, not delights of life so muchYou grieve to lose as that to quit your touchUpon life, is to leave you face to faceWith Hell’s Powers, and at their cruel grace.Dread not; whatever penalties you oweYou will pay to the full, but not Below.Hell’s horrors are mere bugbears; and, as they,Shadows from the realities of day;Warnings as well.In no drear realm beneathWanders Tantalus, with fear-frozen breathLest the huge rock shall snap the slender thread,And thunder down upon his helpless head.It is a parable. The weight of cares,The uncertainties in human affairs—These men attribute to the wrath of God;Charging Heaven with strokes from Fortune’s rod.Never huge Tityos lay chained uponTorturing bank of pitchy Acheron.Had such monster lived, and his writhing bulkPaved, no mere nine acres, a guilt-logged hulk,But the whole Earth’s circle, neither he couldSupply vultures groping his breast for food,Nor his nerves endure ages of the strainOf waiting, with the everlasting pain.The crazed lover in whose heart desire delves,And lust gnaws, is Tityos for ourselves.Look; spy you not passions everywhereMounting red-billed from entrails to the air?Not in Hell is the stone pushed up, that willFoil Sisyphus by rolling down the hill.’Tis our Office-badges we see each yearCandidates praying, buying leave to wear—Ungrateful burden—and worse, after all,Not be licensed to be the people’s thrall!The Danaids again; who could in truthBelieve that in despite of bridal ruthFifty girls, save one, would shed forth a flood,At their father’s dictate, of kindred blood,Or, if so, have paid for the deed in HellBy drawing, in cracked pitchers, from a well?Myth ill planned; but ponder it he who feedsCross-grained diseases of the soul, ill weeds,That usurp life’s field, and divert the gazeFrom joys that might be his for many days,To outbursts as self-mocking as the freakOf pouring water into jars that leak.Cerberus too, the Furies, and the gloomSteaming from black Cocytus, and the boomOf Tartarus, flames and shrieks, horrors seenBy none but bards. They never could have been;Yet such were, are, will be, at our own hearth,So long as wrong is rampant on the Earth.Thriving guilt is haunted. As if to mockIts rise, is hurled from the Tarpeian rock,Shivers in dungeons, is scourged, branded, allTo stamp sin’s end, and emphasize pride’s fall.If Justice often lags, alas, to findFit chastisement for crime, and may seem blind,Conscience is keener-sighted; and its goadAnd whip spare not; no mercy for the load.How cheered would be the sinner could he thinkDying cleared accounts; he had but to sinkIn death, and the weight dropped? Part of his curseIs that fancy paints future torments worse.The Wise assure him Hell is not; in vain;Life, his, is Hell; Eternity of pain.To wrongdoers and wronged too brief a spaceHuman life has seemed to avenge a raceOn heinous crimes against it; hence rose Dis,Balanced by Elysian fields of bliss.But you, the Multitude, why are you sadThat life is short, you, neither good, nor bad?Is it not for an ordinary manAudacious to complain how short his span,When, Ancus, with his royal work to do,Closed his eyes on light, younger than are you?Other kings, and lords many, in the prideOf life, who ruled great nations since have died.By a sudden treason He breathed his lastWho paved a road by which his legions passedO’er the sea’s salt pools, scornful of the roarAs foot and horsemen crossed from shore to shore.Scipio, thunderbolt of war, at whomCarthage shuddered, messenger of her doom,Gave his bones without protest to the graveAs much of course as if a scullion slave.Did they who trained the energies of mindTo serve, and exalt, or please, humankind,Pioneered in the Sciences to armAgainst gross Dulness, and by Arts to charm,Repine when the summons came to leave off,And not echo it with a glad “Enough”!Ministers of the Muses, with the rest,Peerless Homer, by all their king confessed,Raised not a single murmur, did not pleadFor one song more before they joined the dead.Democritus, not stooping to complain,When he missed the old readiness of brain,Stayed for no rougher monitors of age;Spared death the toil of posting the last stage,When the sun arises the stars that shoneIn high Heaven, leave it to flame alone.Epicurus was the sun; in his lightWisdom of other men became as night,His page tracks life to its source; there the wholeIs moulded by this father of the soul.Mortal being is a medley; but as bees,Ranging up and down, among flow’rs and trees,In a woodland glade, sip everywhere,Scorning nothing suckled by sunny air,And turn all to honey, so his wise penTransmutes words into golden sweets for men.As his thought wells up from a mind divine,Terrors bred of animal blood resignTheir hold, world’s walls crumble in dust away,I see in light clearer than that of dayEarth—above it, through it; but nought to tellOf an Under-world, torture-jail of Hell.Heaven stands revealed; the Gods’ quiet home,Where nor clouds, nor rain and snow-storms dare come,And in large air they breathe immortally,Unknowing sin or grief, content to Be.Ah! the debt that I owe, joy mixed with awe,For all I learned through him of Nature’s law!If lives stretched for goodness, well might his vieFor an exemption from the rule to die;Nothing more certain, as his light grew dim,Than his waiver of it, if pressed on him.And You make a fuss at death, fret and fume,When how does your life differ from a tomb?You rid yourself of half of it in sleep;For the other half, when you think you keepAwake, bemused you yawn and snore, a preyTo sick nightmares although it is broad day,Chief of your evils being that you failTo extort from them what it is you ail.Cruel the weight, you cry, upon your breast;It wears you out, and robs you of your rest.Seek whence it came, and by what right it tookYou for pack-horse, and why it is you brookThe burden; put it, put your brain and heartTo the question. When you and Reason part,The nightmare will be gone, and you will findYou have regained possession of your mind.Ignorance of Causes;—that is the mainVirus in the pest of which you complain.You rush about with it, are discontentTo return no sounder than when you went.Ho! to the villa from the house in Town—As driving a fire engine—headlong down.Doze; with the fury that you galloped down,Gallop up, just to sup alone in Town!Why! to escape yourself—from whom, be sure,You cannot flee out of whatever door.Yourself you loathe for sickness!And its Cause?None else than being blind to Nature’s laws.Life-in-death—it fleets! Moments its concern;Yet in them what may not a mortal learn!Study those laws, I say; they keep the keyOf the Universe and Eternity;The clue to what hereafter shall be madeOf this stuff in which, men, we masquerade.
So complain not, as if to strike away
From life ere extreme age, if then, a day
Were robbery. We have, all grant, no right
O’er the past; Nature, keeping this in sight,
Inquires what better title then have we
To stake out a claim in futurity.
Past—no beginning—future—no end—are one;
Neither heeds when Man comes; when he is gone;
And you—when time casts you out, why lament,
More than its neglect in the old descent?
For grievances a fairer you might choose
In the undue postponement of repose.
Sleep is prized as a respite from Earth’s strife,
Yet is checkered by dreams that mimic life;
And death loathed as carrion bird of air,
Though sleep’s original, with no nightmare!
But, perhaps, not delights of life so much
You grieve to lose as that to quit your touch
Upon life, is to leave you face to face
With Hell’s Powers, and at their cruel grace.
Dread not; whatever penalties you owe
You will pay to the full, but not Below.
Hell’s horrors are mere bugbears; and, as they,
Shadows from the realities of day;
Warnings as well.
In no drear realm beneath
Wanders Tantalus, with fear-frozen breath
Lest the huge rock shall snap the slender thread,
And thunder down upon his helpless head.
It is a parable. The weight of cares,
The uncertainties in human affairs—
These men attribute to the wrath of God;
Charging Heaven with strokes from Fortune’s rod.
Never huge Tityos lay chained upon
Torturing bank of pitchy Acheron.
Had such monster lived, and his writhing bulk
Paved, no mere nine acres, a guilt-logged hulk,
But the whole Earth’s circle, neither he could
Supply vultures groping his breast for food,
Nor his nerves endure ages of the strain
Of waiting, with the everlasting pain.
The crazed lover in whose heart desire delves,
And lust gnaws, is Tityos for ourselves.
Look; spy you not passions everywhere
Mounting red-billed from entrails to the air?
Not in Hell is the stone pushed up, that will
Foil Sisyphus by rolling down the hill.
’Tis our Office-badges we see each year
Candidates praying, buying leave to wear—
Ungrateful burden—and worse, after all,
Not be licensed to be the people’s thrall!
The Danaids again; who could in truth
Believe that in despite of bridal ruth
Fifty girls, save one, would shed forth a flood,
At their father’s dictate, of kindred blood,
Or, if so, have paid for the deed in Hell
By drawing, in cracked pitchers, from a well?
Myth ill planned; but ponder it he who feeds
Cross-grained diseases of the soul, ill weeds,
That usurp life’s field, and divert the gaze
From joys that might be his for many days,
To outbursts as self-mocking as the freak
Of pouring water into jars that leak.
Cerberus too, the Furies, and the gloom
Steaming from black Cocytus, and the boom
Of Tartarus, flames and shrieks, horrors seen
By none but bards. They never could have been;
Yet such were, are, will be, at our own hearth,
So long as wrong is rampant on the Earth.
Thriving guilt is haunted. As if to mock
Its rise, is hurled from the Tarpeian rock,
Shivers in dungeons, is scourged, branded, all
To stamp sin’s end, and emphasize pride’s fall.
If Justice often lags, alas, to find
Fit chastisement for crime, and may seem blind,
Conscience is keener-sighted; and its goad
And whip spare not; no mercy for the load.
How cheered would be the sinner could he think
Dying cleared accounts; he had but to sink
In death, and the weight dropped? Part of his curse
Is that fancy paints future torments worse.
The Wise assure him Hell is not; in vain;
Life, his, is Hell; Eternity of pain.
To wrongdoers and wronged too brief a space
Human life has seemed to avenge a race
On heinous crimes against it; hence rose Dis,
Balanced by Elysian fields of bliss.
But you, the Multitude, why are you sad
That life is short, you, neither good, nor bad?
Is it not for an ordinary man
Audacious to complain how short his span,
When, Ancus, with his royal work to do,
Closed his eyes on light, younger than are you?
Other kings, and lords many, in the pride
Of life, who ruled great nations since have died.
By a sudden treason He breathed his last
Who paved a road by which his legions passed
O’er the sea’s salt pools, scornful of the roar
As foot and horsemen crossed from shore to shore.
Scipio, thunderbolt of war, at whom
Carthage shuddered, messenger of her doom,
Gave his bones without protest to the grave
As much of course as if a scullion slave.
Did they who trained the energies of mind
To serve, and exalt, or please, humankind,
Pioneered in the Sciences to arm
Against gross Dulness, and by Arts to charm,
Repine when the summons came to leave off,
And not echo it with a glad “Enough”!
Ministers of the Muses, with the rest,
Peerless Homer, by all their king confessed,
Raised not a single murmur, did not plead
For one song more before they joined the dead.
Democritus, not stooping to complain,
When he missed the old readiness of brain,
Stayed for no rougher monitors of age;
Spared death the toil of posting the last stage,
When the sun arises the stars that shone
In high Heaven, leave it to flame alone.
Epicurus was the sun; in his light
Wisdom of other men became as night,
His page tracks life to its source; there the whole
Is moulded by this father of the soul.
Mortal being is a medley; but as bees,
Ranging up and down, among flow’rs and trees,
In a woodland glade, sip everywhere,
Scorning nothing suckled by sunny air,
And turn all to honey, so his wise pen
Transmutes words into golden sweets for men.
As his thought wells up from a mind divine,
Terrors bred of animal blood resign
Their hold, world’s walls crumble in dust away,
I see in light clearer than that of day
Earth—above it, through it; but nought to tell
Of an Under-world, torture-jail of Hell.
Heaven stands revealed; the Gods’ quiet home,
Where nor clouds, nor rain and snow-storms dare come,
And in large air they breathe immortally,
Unknowing sin or grief, content to Be.
Ah! the debt that I owe, joy mixed with awe,
For all I learned through him of Nature’s law!
If lives stretched for goodness, well might his vie
For an exemption from the rule to die;
Nothing more certain, as his light grew dim,
Than his waiver of it, if pressed on him.
And You make a fuss at death, fret and fume,
When how does your life differ from a tomb?
You rid yourself of half of it in sleep;
For the other half, when you think you keep
Awake, bemused you yawn and snore, a prey
To sick nightmares although it is broad day,
Chief of your evils being that you fail
To extort from them what it is you ail.
Cruel the weight, you cry, upon your breast;
It wears you out, and robs you of your rest.
Seek whence it came, and by what right it took
You for pack-horse, and why it is you brook
The burden; put it, put your brain and heart
To the question. When you and Reason part,
The nightmare will be gone, and you will find
You have regained possession of your mind.
Ignorance of Causes;—that is the main
Virus in the pest of which you complain.
You rush about with it, are discontent
To return no sounder than when you went.
Ho! to the villa from the house in Town—
As driving a fire engine—headlong down.
Doze; with the fury that you galloped down,
Gallop up, just to sup alone in Town!
Why! to escape yourself—from whom, be sure,
You cannot flee out of whatever door.
Yourself you loathe for sickness!
And its Cause?
None else than being blind to Nature’s laws.
Life-in-death—it fleets! Moments its concern;
Yet in them what may not a mortal learn!
Study those laws, I say; they keep the key
Of the Universe and Eternity;
The clue to what hereafter shall be made
Of this stuff in which, men, we masquerade.
Take to heart my counsel; do not from fearFor life, shun ills your duty is to bear.The end’s stamped on each mortal lot by Fate;No human force avails to change the date.And why crave to live on? You’ll find nought new;Nothing but the old objects to pursue;No fresh joys from life to be hammered; justBattered failures, and savouring of dust.We covet years, in the hope that they willBe generous beyond the past, and still,Although they be, hope, covet, as at first;So wide-mouthed faith; so unquenchable thirst!Never does it occur to you to glanceAt Fortune’s caprices, the whims of Chance,To reflect that, if added, years will not,Whatever the number, affect one jotThe accounts between life and death.No strifeCan be, infinite Death with finite Life.What that called “Death”? A sea beyond, before;Boundless, everlasting; no port, no shore.And “Life”? An accident. Whether at birth it fall,Or in a thousand years, concerns not Death at all!
Take to heart my counsel; do not from fear
For life, shun ills your duty is to bear.
The end’s stamped on each mortal lot by Fate;
No human force avails to change the date.
And why crave to live on? You’ll find nought new;
Nothing but the old objects to pursue;
No fresh joys from life to be hammered; just
Battered failures, and savouring of dust.
We covet years, in the hope that they will
Be generous beyond the past, and still,
Although they be, hope, covet, as at first;
So wide-mouthed faith; so unquenchable thirst!
Never does it occur to you to glance
At Fortune’s caprices, the whims of Chance,
To reflect that, if added, years will not,
Whatever the number, affect one jot
The accounts between life and death.
No strife
Can be, infinite Death with finite Life.
What that called “Death”? A sea beyond, before;
Boundless, everlasting; no port, no shore.
And “Life”? An accident. Whether at birth it fall,
Or in a thousand years, concerns not Death at all!