Part 4 (2/2)

The misery and ma.s.sacre Of war's destructive train, The martyrdom of animals, The tragedy of pain,

The infamous brutalities To helpless children shown, The pathos of whose joyless lives Might melt a heart of stone?

Preeminently merciful, Does not thy spirit long To guard from inhumanity The weak against the strong?

Thou biddest us deal tenderly With every breathing-thing,-- The horse that drags the heavy load, The bird upon the wing,

The flocks along the riverside, The cattle on the lea, And every living denizen Of earth and air and sea;

Yet daily in the shambles A sea of blood is spilled, And man is nourished chiefly From beasts that he has killed!

And hunters still find happiness In seeing, red with wounds, A sobbing deer, with liquid eyes, Dragged down by yelping hounds!

What is the real significance Of thine unchanging smile?

Hast thou the secret consciousness That grief is not worth while?

That sorrow is the consequence Of former lives of sin,-- The spur that goads us on and up A n.o.bler life to win?

That pain is as impermanent As shadows on the hills, And that Nirvana's blessedness Will cure all mortal ills?

But agony is agony, And small is the relief If, measured with eternity, Life's anguish be but brief.

To hearts that break with misery, To every tortured frame The present pain is paramount, Nirvana but a name.

Moreover, why should former lives Bequeath their weight of woe, If with it comes no memory To guide us, as we go?

If o'er the dark, prenatal void No mental bridge be cast, No thread, however frail, to link The present to the past?

Still silent and dispa.s.sionate!

Ah, would that I might find The key to the serenity That fills thy lofty mind!

Thou hast a joy we do not feel, A light we cannot see; Injustice, sin, and wretchedness No longer sadden thee;

No doubt to thy sublimer gaze Life's mystery grows plain, As finally full recompense Atones for earthly pain.

THE PILLARS OF HERCULES

Here ends at last the Inland Sea!

Still seems its outlet, as of yore, The anteroom of Mystery, As, through its westward-facing door, I see the vast Atlantic lie In splendor 'neath a sunset sky.

Above its distant, glittering rim Streams o'er the waves a flood of gold, To gild the mountains, bare and grim, Which guard this exit, as of old,-- The sombre sentries of two seas, The Pillars reared by Hercules;--

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