Page:Toleration and other essays.djvu/286

262 Man is a stranger to his own research; He knows not whence he comes, nor whither goes. Tormented atoms in a bed of mud, Devoured by death, a mockery of fate. But thinking atoms, whose far-seeing eyes, Guided by thought, have measured the faint stars, Our being mingles with the infinite; Ourselves we never see, or come to know. This world, this theatre of pride and wrong, Swarms with sick fools who talk of happiness. With plaints and groans they follow up the quest, To die reluctant, or be born again. At fitful moments in our pain-racked life The hand of pleasure wipes away our tears; But pleasure passes like a fleeting shade, And leaves a legacy of pain and loss. The past for us is but a fond regret, The present grim, unless the future's clear. If thought must end in darkness of the tomb, All will be well one day—so runs our hope. All now is well, is but an idle dream. The wise deceive me: God alone is right. With lowly sighing, subject in my pain, I do not fling myself 'gainst Providence. Once did I sing, in less lugubrious tone, The sunny ways of pleasure's genial rule; The times have changed, and, taught by growing age, And sharing of the frailty of mankind, Seeking a light amid the deepening gloom, I can but suffer, and will not repine.

A caliph once, when his last hour had come, This prayer addressed to him he reverenced: