Oh, Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!

Lx.x.xI

Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev'n with Paradist devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!

Lx.x.xII

As under cover of departing Day Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away, Once more within the Potter's house alone I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.

Lx.x.xIII

Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small, That stood along the floor and by the wall; And some loquacious Vessels were; and some Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.

Lx.x.xIV

Said one among them---"Surely not in vain My substance of the common Earth was ta'en And to this Figure moulded, to be broke, Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."

Lx.x.xV

Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; And He that with his hand the Vessel made Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."

Lx.x.xVI

After a momentary silence spake Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make; "They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

Lx.x.xVII

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot-- I think a Sufi pipkin--waxing hot-- "All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

Lx.x.xVIII

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to h.e.l.l The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!

He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."

Lx.x.xIX

"Well," murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy, My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry: But fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by and by."

XC

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking: And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!

Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"

XCI

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash the Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side.

XCII

That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air As not a True-believer pa.s.sing by But shall be overtaken unaware.

XCIII

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in this World much wrong: Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup And sold my Reputation for a Song.

XCIV

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore--but was I sober when I swore?

And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

XCV

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour--Well, I wonder often what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

XCVI

Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!

That Youth's sweet-scented ma.n.u.script should close!

The Nightingale that in the branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

XCVII

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd, To which the fainting Traveller might spring, As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

XCVIII

Would but some winged Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister, or quite obliterate!