Collected Works (Vol. II)

160 THE SWORD OF SONG Each life bound ever to the wheel Ay, and each being—we may guess Now that the very crystals feel !— 620 For them no harp-resounding 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! 625 No! for material things, I hear, Will burn away, and cease to be— (Nibbana! Ah! Thou shoreless Sea !) Man, man alone, is doomed to fear, To suffer the eternal woe, 630 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 — 635 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 640 Gird up my loins and make endeavour, And seek a refuge from my grief, O never in Heaven—but in Hell! Death-bed of “Oh, very well!” I think you say, poet. Effect “Wait only till your dying day ! 645 of body on : . mind See whether then you kiss the rod, And bow that proud soul down to God !” I perfectly admit the fact ; Quite likely that 1 so shall act ! Here’s why Creation jumps at prayer. 650 You Christians quote me in a breath This, that, the other atheist’s death ; How they sought God! Ofcourse! Impair By just a touch of fever, chill, My health—where flies my vivid will? 655 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,