THE QUATRAINS OF
We are but chessmen, destined, it is plain,
That great chess player, Heaven, to entertain;
It moves us on life's chess-board to and fro,
And then in death's box shuts up again.
You ask what is this life so frail, so vain,
'Tis long to tell, yet will I make it plain;
'Tis but a breath blown from the vasty deeps,
And then blown back to those same deeps again!
To-day to heights of rapture have I soared.
Yea, and with drunken Maghs pure wine adored;
I am become beside myself, and rest
In that pure temple, "Am not I your Lord?"
270. L. N. B. Hakíkatí, see Bl., Prosody 3.
271. C. L. N. A. I. J. Some MSS. read naksh. Deeps, i. e. the ocean of Not-being.