All is Vanity
Or, The Ascetic Sage.
FROM pleasure’s cup the sage had drank,
Till from a surfeit plagued—till lo!
The blossom in his nostril stank,
That once had set his heart a-glow.
By duty led he then began
To paint the lures in language stern,
That but debase the inner man,
And blind him to his weal eterne.
“From all that I have seen or heard
This world,” he said, “is but a show,
And only can the heart afford
What tends to bitter strife and woe;
Nay in its clutch, do what we will,
Upon our erring steps attend
Annoyance and vexation still,
To cross and wrack us to the end.
“That bubble frail, in sheen unmatched,
Attracted by its radiance rare,
Do we stretch out our hand to snatch’t?
The jewel melts into the air:
So will the golden wish we prize
Seem all but in our fingers locked,
And then evanish from our eyes
And leave us tantalized and mocked.
“Does glory captivate the soul?
Do we for bay or laurel crave?
And do we seek the distant goal
Assured the prize is for the brave?
Years roll away and life is past
And in the end what at the most,
For sleepless nights and labours vast—
What have we but a blank to boast?
“To drink we fly in woe, and drunk
Is thus what makes us fools—in fact
Down to a lower level sunk,—
The brute, in brutal acts, to act;
Again becoming self-possess’d,
What rankles in the bosom—ay
What but a ten times direr pest
Than that from which we strove to fly?
“By beauty’s dazzling spells beset
The strong, the weak, the grave, the gay,
On locks of gold, on eyes of jet,
May dream the transient hours away;
May dream to wake, and what I to learn
Those locks are worse than serpents fall;
Those eyes but fires of hate and scorn
Ordained to make our life a hell.
“The supple knee we yield to gold,
And seek for happiness in pelf;
And what’s our gain but cares untold?
And what’s our loss but manhood’s self?
We lose what gold has never bought,
We gain but what degrades the man,
And for the happiness thus sought
We yet may find it—when we can.
“Deluded still are we! and should
We grasp at last the boon esteemed,
The victim of a ban then would
We deem it other than we deemed;
Nay, nay, our idol at the best
Is e’er a thing defective found,
Which fails to satisfy the breast
And less will satisfy than wound.
“The strife for gold, the chase of fame,
Of pleasure’s or of beauty’s charms,
Subjects the soul to sin and shame,
And to a thousand lesser harms;
Then let thy vain endeavour end,
Its promised blessings let them go,
Unto thy spirit’s weal attend—
This world is but an empty show!”
Autres oeuvres par Joseph Skipsey...
