the ills and worried by the troubles of life is such a boon that we are all striving to gain it. Every man is more or less of an epicurean. "A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine or a loaf of bread—and thou Oh, wilderness were Paradise enow." What a picture! How we would all like to live thus -if we could-and had the money. In the light of such an existence as Omar paints, honor, love, fame, fade into mist. Then we could sing with him: Some for the glories of this world; and some Ah, take the cash and let the credit go, Nor heed the rumble of the distant drum. Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Dust into dust, and under dust to lie Sans wine, san song, sans singer and sans end." And then, when we have exhausted all the pleasures of the world; when the soul as well as the body is drunk to excess, and can drink no more of the wine of Desire, if we are tired of existence, "Why, if the soul can fling the dust aside, And naked on the air of Heaven ride, Wer't not a shame-wer't not a shame for him In this clay carcass to abide." But even if there be a future life, and if there will be retribution for sin in it, why, who is to take the blame? If a pot is cracked and full of flaws, who deserves censure but the potter who made it? So He who made me is reponsible for the faults that I possess. Such is the conversation of the pots, one of the most beautiful touches in the poem, contained in Quatrains LXXXIII. to XC. The whole philosophy of "The Rubaiyat" is summed up in the assurance of the little jug, with its shrill voice and its mild blasphemy, Why, said another, some there are who tell The luckless pots he marred in making-Pish! If we live after this fashion, when we come to die we will not be afraid to go. "So, when the angel of the darker drink At last shall find you by the river brink, And, offering his cup, invite your soul Forth to your lips to quaff-you shall not shrink." Nor need we fear that when we are dead the world, with its follies and troubles, will cease to exist. It will whirl along in space just the same as it does now; better, perhaps, for our absence. "When you and I behind the veil are past, Oh, but the long, long while the world shall last, As the sea's self should heed a pebble cast. But after all this reflection, after all this useless endeavor to smother the desire and the yearning for something better in a future state, this poor old man, with his years heavy on him, seems to feel the consciousness that for all his thinking he has missed the secret of it all, and that the ideas he has fostered have brought him no peace and no consolation. He drones out in the monotone of despair: "Indeed, the idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in this world much wrong; And now comes Remorse, with its dreadful scourge; remorse for a wasted life: "Indeed, indeed, repentance oft before I swore-but was I sober when I swore ? How true, Omar, how true. In the light of the present how strong appear our good resolutions; but when temptation comes they fly apart like the petals of a withered rose before a strong wind. In the twilight of his life how bright appeared to him the bygone days of youth; the days that will never return. "Yet, ah, that Spring should vanish with the rose! That youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close! The nightingale that in the branches sang Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows?" But the light is slowly fading, and the night is very near. Before he goes the poet's dedesire to know the truth, to hear the answer to his question, overshadows his senile, peevish -ailing at the order of things, "Would but some wingèd angel, ere too late, Arrest the yet unfolded roll of Fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister or quite obliterate." GUERIN. A MAY LEGEND. The Pyrenee mountains tower high The May procession winds along And now they have reached the mountain's crest, And each one prays his own dear prayer, For our Lady's help and our Lady's care. Slowly the evening sun sinks down And the mountain shadow steals over the town. The people have decked the holy shrine With wreaths of flowers and mountain vine. And now the notes of the parting hymn Fade in the twilight soft and dim, Fade as the pilgrims wander down The mountain path to the silent town. The twilight deepens into shade And no one is left save a little maid, Who prays to our Lady morn and night To village swain and mountaineer; A man has entered the chapel door, J. |