trooping host whose pomps incarnadine
The faded trophies of the dying day,
And, lest I fail before so brave array,
She decks the quiet clouds where fancies dwell
With sweet translucent gleam and melting hue
To woo my swooning sense with softer spell
Of blissful pink and hyacinthine blue.

* * * * *

"Life," said the Rajah, "is the fairest of flowers, and its beauty and
fragrance are for him who plucks."

"Plucks," sighed one, "to find it wither in his grasp."

Said the Rajah, "To do justice to life, one must forget death."

"Forgetfulness may be desirable," said another, "but how shall it be
attained? How deny the tyrant who at each sunset demands his tribute
dues of sleep, and enwraps my vassal being in dull oblivion?"

"By ill-conditioned fears," replied the Rajah, "men invite evil. To him
who desires the solace of ghostly companionship shall the spectres
troop, a phantom in every shadow, and with him make their abode. He who
fears is already overcome. To the man who would live there must be no
death. For me, I love the rosy, teeming present; to-morrow is with the
gods, and I for one," he added laughing, "will not be guilty of an
impious theft by anticipating their gifts."

"Life," said an Englishman, "is a battle-field in which victory is to
the valiant. To my mind the effort after forgetfulness is no less
disquieting than the fear you would shun. Death, could we but believe
it, is simple and natural as Life."

But this he said, not knowing that

"Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be."

"It is true," spoke the Venerable Nawab Khan, a Musselman of devout
piety, "and to what purpose do we struggle? The inevitable is not to be
averted

Tho', sliding through lush grass, the shining snake,
Loving the sun, a sinuous way doth take,
Its fixed journey to its home 'twill make.
Even as in tranquil vale reluctant rill,
In sportive twinings nigh its parent hill,
Proceedeth onward to the ocean still.

"Life is a dream," continued the pious man, "and the first condition of
its happiness is peace. For me I am weary of battle-fields, and feel no
desire to grasp after illusive flowers and fading grass. If anticipated
evil is the shadow of life, the vain toils of restless ambition are its
menace. Vain toil it is! To labour, to suffer, to sorely strive that we
may accomplish--our destiny! For that is what our utmost