. The poems of Edwin Arnold .. . he minute,Each life quickens in the womb; Thence its march, no falter in it,Goes straight forward to the tomb. And twere not so, would sorrow cease with years?Wisdom sees right what want of knowledge fears. Seek not the wild, sad heart! thy passions haunt it;Play hermit in thy house with heart undaunted;A governed heart, thinking no thought but good,Makes crowded houses holy solitude. Away with those that preach to us the washing off ofsin — Thine own self is the stream for thee to make ablu-tions in: 420 ARNOLDS POEMS. In self-restraint it rises pure — flows c
. The poems of Edwin Arnold .. . he minute,Each life quickens in the womb; Thence its march, no falter in it,Goes straight forward to the tomb. And twere not so, would sorrow cease with years?Wisdom sees right what want of knowledge fears. Seek not the wild, sad heart! thy passions haunt it;Play hermit in thy house with heart undaunted;A governed heart, thinking no thought but good,Makes crowded houses holy solitude. Away with those that preach to us the washing off ofsin — Thine own self is the stream for thee to make ablu-tions in: 420 ARNOLDS POEMS. In self-restraint it rises pure — flows clear in tide of truth,By widening banks of wisdom, in waves of peace and truth. Bathe there, thou son of Pandu! with reverence and rite,For never yet was water wet could wash the spirit white. —?— Thunder for nothing, like Decembers cloud,Passes unmarked: strike hard, but speak not loud. Minds deceived by evil natures, from the good their faith withhold;When hot conjee once has burned them, children blow upon the AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA. 421 AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA. He who died at Azan sendsThis to comfort all his friends: Faithful friends! it lies, I know,Pale and white and cold as snow;And ye say, Abdallahs dead!Weeping at the feet and head,I can see your falling tears,I can hear your sighs and prayers;Yet I smile and whisper this,— I am not the thing you kiss;Cease your tears, and let it lie;It tvas mine, it is not I. Sweet friends! What the women lave For its last bed of the grave, Is but a hut which I am quitting, Is a garment no more fitting, Is a cage from which, at last, Like a hawk my soul hath passed. Love the inmate, not the room,— The wearer, not the garb,—the plume Of the falcon, not the bars Which kept him from those splendid stare Loving friends! Be wise and dry Straightway every weeping eye,—? What ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a wistful tear. Tis an empty sea-shell, one Out of which the pearl is gone; The shell is broken, it lies there;
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Keywords: ., bo, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, booksubjectbuddhaandbuddhism
