Oh ye bundle of misgivings,
Oh stock of faults and foolery,
Oh emblem of wisdom and virtuous wings
Oh epitaph of jargon and jugglery!
Rejoice! Thou hast in thee some stains,
Some spots – inklings of dawning morrows –
For these adorn thy tumultuous mains
That mark for thee new heaven’s furrows.
Thank thee, ye vibrant stupidity,
The veiled mother of hidden height,
Thou bringeth forth the font of knowledge
To light with all thy virtuous might!
Oh night! Oh soothing darkness dear,
The venerable nurse of vibrant yore,
I do adore thy sanguine cheer,
Oh harbinger of Light asore!
There amidst all ugly shame
A man’s eternal honour shines;
Weigh not the present with the past,
For everything in time declines.
Things, for sure, do ever change
And bring each day some hope anew;
If horizon in eve burns red,
Crimson is the morn-sky too.
For, if there be no misery,
Where would happiness find a treat?
For lack of sprouting ignorance
Knowledge all in vain will quit.
Hate not the wrong, nor hate the rot;
For right prevaileth save it not;
Blame ye not the renowned sinner,
In him doth shine tomorrow’s seer!
Judge not a thing from its outer sheath,
Wooven is the cocoon by silk underneath;
Albeit, it may hide a worm looking dead,
May be, there lies dormant a butterfly clad!
Worship the intrinsic worth of a man,
Hind not the tint nor the sodden stain;
Fondle the heart of a sighing fan,
The sooth may bring him hope again!
Forget thee not thy pitfalls, brother –
Thy dawning morrow’s blooming hopes,
Fear not a fall; aim high. Why smother?
Gird up thy loins; tame not thy mopes.
A beacon be in the darkening night,
Be thou a strength to those in plight,
Be thou a hope where dismay prevails
And a sparkling glee amidst all wails !
What’s a man but a flickering flame,–
A gamely blend of fame and shame?
What’s a man devoid of guilt,–
A bubbling ball of blame-free built?
If thou beareth blameless, spot-free gait,
An emblem of piety, a purity divine
Thou art for sure a god incarnate
Or else a stony carcass supine!
Bend ye, and lift the lying trodden,
Crutches to the limping be,
An eye to sightless dismal brethren,
A pride to the parted pedigree.
Tha…t, That’s life, indeed, my dear,
A living font of hope and care;
That’s the bloom of virtue clear,
A sublimity with no despair!
For, who pacing the earth
Can ever blameless be?
Can one born of a woman
Ever truly be spot-free?