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Which whole surrounding flats of natural life
Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to;

A tower that crowns a country. But alas,
The soul now climbs it just to perish there!
For thence we have discovered ('tis no dream—
We know this, which we had not else perceived)
That there's a world of capability

For joy, spread round about us, meant for us,
Inviting us; and still the soul craves all,

And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot more
Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad!
Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought
Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge
Our bounded physical recipiency,

Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life,
Repair the waste of age and sickness: no,
It skills not! life's inadequate to joy,
As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take.
They praise a fountain in my garden here
Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow
Thin from her tube: she smiles to see it rise.
What if I told her, it is just a thread
From that great river which the hills shut up,
And mock her with my leave to take the same?
The artificer has given her one small tube
Past power to widen or exchange--what boots
To know she might spout oceans if she could?
She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread :
And so a man can use but a man's joy
While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast,
See, man, how happy I live, and despair—
That I may be still happier-for thy use!”
If this were so, we could not thank our lord,
As hearts beat on to doing: 'tis not so-
Malice it is not. Is it carelessness?

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Still, no. If care where is the sign? I ask,
And get no answer, and agree in sum,
O king! with thy profound discouragement,
Who seest the wider but to sigh the more.
Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well.
The last point now. Thou dost except a case-
Holding joy not impossible to one
With artist-gifts-to such a man as I
Who leave behind me living works indeed;
For, such a poem, such a painting lives.
What? dost thou verily trip upon a word,
Confound the accurate view of what joy is

(Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) With feeling joy? confound the knowing how And showing how to live (my faculty)

With actually living?-Otherwise

Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king?
Because in my great epos I display

How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act—
Is this as though I acted? if I paint,

Carve the young Phœbus, am I therefore young?
Methinks I'm older that I bowed myself

The many years of pain that taught me art!
Indeed, to know is something, and to prove
How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more:
But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too.
Yon rower, with the molded muscles there,
Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I.

I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode.
I get to sing of love, when grown too gray
For being beloved: she turns to that young man,
The muscles all a-ripple on his back.

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I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king!
But," sayest thou-(and I marvel, I repeat,
To find thee tripping on a mere word) “what
Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die.
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs,
And Eschylus, because we read his plays!
Why, if they live still, let them come and take
Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup,
Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive?
Say rather that my fate is deadlier still,
In this, that every day my sense of joy
Grows more acute, my soul (intensified
By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen;
While every day my hair falls more and more,
My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase—
The horror quickening still from year to year,
The consummation coming past escape,

When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy—
When all my works wherein I prove my worth,
Being present still to mock me in men's mouths,
Alive still, in the phrase of such as thou,
I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man,
The man who loved his life so overmuch,
Shall sleep in my urn. It is so horrible,
I dare at times imagine to my need
Some future state revealed to us by Zeus,
Unlimited in capability

For joy, as this is in desire for joy,

--To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us :
That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait
On purpose to make prized the life at large-
Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death,
We burst there, as the worm into the fly,

Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no!
Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas,

He must have done so, were it possible!

Live long and happy, and in that thought die Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest, I cannot tell thy messenger aright

Where to deliver what he bears of thine

To one called Paulus; we have heard his fame
Indeed, if Christus be not one with him—
I know not, nor am troubled much to know.
Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew
As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised,
Hath access to a secret shut from us?
Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king,
In stooping to inquire of such an one,
As if his answer could impose at all!

He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write.

Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves

Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ ;

And (as I gathered from a bystander)

Their doctrine could be held by no sane man.

INSTANS TYRANNUS.

I.

OF the million or two, more or less,

I rule and possess,

One man, for some cause undefined,
Was least to my mind.

II.

I struck him, he groveled of course

For, what was his force?

I pinned him to earth with my weight

And persistence of hate;

And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,

As his lot might be worse.

III.

"Were the object less mean, would he stand
At the swing of my hand!

For obscurity helps him, and blots
The hole where he squats.'

So, I set my five wits on the stretch
To inveigle the wretch.

All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,
Still he couched there perdue;

I tempted his blood and his flesh,

Hid in roses my mesh,

Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth:

Still he kept to his filth.

IV.

Had he kith now or kin, were access

To his heart, did I press:

Just a son or a mother to seize !

No such booty as these.

Were it simply a friend to pursue

'Mid my million or two,

Who could pay me, in person or pelf,

What he owes me himself!

No: I could not but smile through my chafe:

For the fellow lay safe

As his mates do, the midge and the nit,

-Through minuteness, to wit.

V.

Then a humor more great took its place

At the thought of his face :

The droop, the low cares of the mouth,

The trouble uncouth

'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain

To put out of its pain.

And, "no!" I admonished myself,

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Is one mocked by an elf,

Is one baffled by toad or by rat?

The gravamen's in that!

How the lion, who crouches to suit

His back to my foot,

Would admire that I stand in debate!

But the small turns the great

If it vexes you,—that is the thing!

Toad or rat vex the king?

Though I waste half my realm to unearth

Toad or rat, 'tis well worth!"

VI.

So, I soberly laid my last plan
To extinguish the man.

Round his creep-hole, with never a break,
Ran my fires for his sake;

Overhead, did my thunder combine

With my underground mine :

Till I looked from my labor content
To enjoy the event

VII.

When sudden how think ye, the end?
Did I say
without friend"?

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Say rather, from marge to blue marge
The whole sky grew his targe

With the sun's self for visible boss,

While an Arm ran across,

Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast,

Where the wretch was safe prest!

Do you see? Just my vengeance complete,

The man sprang to his feet,

Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed!
-So, I was afraid!

AN EPISTLE

CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF
KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN.

KARSHISH, the picker-up of learning's crumbs,
The not-incurious in God's handiwork

(This man's flesh he hath admirably made,
Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste,

To coop up and keep down on earth a space
That puff of vapor from his mouth, man's soul)
-To Abib, all-sagacious in our art,

Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast,

Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks

Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain,

Whereby the wily vapor fain would slip

Back and rejoin its source before the term,

And aptest in contrivance (under God)

To baffle it by deftly stopping such :

The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home

Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace)

Three samples of true snake-stone-rarer still,

One of the other sort, the melon-shaped

(But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs),

And writeth now the twenty-second time.

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