ternity upon his wings--Or,
failing, fall into the Gulf and die?"

"_Ay; so, for the Glories of this World sigh some,
And some for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
But you, Friend, take the Cash--the Credit leave,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!_"

"What! take the Cash and let the Credit go?
Spend all upon the Wine the while I know
A possible To-morrow may bring thirst
For Drink but Credit then shall cause to flow?"

"_Yea, make the most of what you yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!_"

"Into the Dust we shall descend--we must.
But can the soul not break the crumbling Crust
In which he is encaged? To hope or to
Despair he will--which is more wise or just?"

"_The worldly hope men set their hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers: and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone_."

"Like Snow it comes--to cool one burning Day;
And like it goes--for all our plea or sway.
But flooding tears nor Wine can ever purge
The Vision it has brought to us away."

"_But to this world we come and Why not knowing,
Nor Whence, like water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the waste,
We know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing_."

"True, little do we know of _Why_ or _Whence_.
But is forsooth our Darkness evidence
There is no Light?--the worm may see no star
Tho' heaven with myriad multitudes be dense."

"_But, all unasked, we're hither hurried Whence?
And, all unasked, we're Whither hurried hence?
O, many a cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence._"

"Yet can not--ever! For it is forbid
Still by that quenchless Soul within us hid,
Which cries, 'Feed--feed me not on Wine alone,
For to Immortal Banquets I am bid.'"

"_Well oft I think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled:
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her lap from some once lovely Head._"

"Then if, from the dull Clay thro' with Life's throes,
More beautiful spring Hyacinth and Rose,
Will the great Gardener for the uprooted soul
Find Use no sweeter than--useless Repose?"

"_We cannot know--so fill the cup that