Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/212

200 And shake before those awful Powers,

Who in their pride forgive not ours.

Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach:

'Bard, when thee would Allah teach,

And lift thee to his holy mount,

He sends thee from his bitter fount

Wormwood,—saying, "Go thy ways,

Drink not the Malaga of praise,

But do the deed thy fellows hate,

And compromise thy peaceful state;

Smite the white breasts which thee fed;

Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head

Of them thou shouldst have comforted;

For out of woe and out of crime

Draws the heart a lore sublime."'

And yet it seemeth not to me

That the high gods love tragedy;

For Saadi sat in the sun,

And thanks was his contrition;

For haircloth and for bloody whips,

Had active hands and smiling lips;