Page:The Sacred Books and Early Literature of the East, Volume 08.djvu/97



O Lord! pity this prisoned heart, I pray,

Pity this bosom stricken with dismay!

Pardon these hands that ever grasp the cup,

These feet that to the tavern ever stray!

O Lord! from self-conceit deliver me,

Sever from self, and occupy with Thee!

This self is captive to earth's good and ill,

Make me beside myself, and set me free!

Behold the tricks this wheeling dome doth play,

And earth laid bare of old friends torn away!

O live this present moment, which is thine,

Seek not a morrow, mourn not yesterday!

Since all man's business in this world of woe

Is sorrow's pangs to feel, and grief to know,

Happy are they that never come at all,

And they that, having come, the soonest go!

By reason's dictates it is right to live,

But of ourselves we know not how to live,

So Fortune, like a master, rod in hand,

Raps our pates well to teach us how to live!

Nor you nor I can read the etern decree,

To that enigma we can find no key;

They talk of you and me behtnd the veil,

But, if that veil be lifted, where are we?