THE RUBAIYAT OF O’MARA KHAYVAN.

Wake! for the night that lets poor man forget His daily toil is past, and in Care’s net Another day is caught to gasp and fade; Oh, but my weary bones are heavy yet! Wake! son of kings that bears a hod on high, And builds the world. The red sun mounts the sky And circles squares in the cot’s every chink And gilds ephemeral motes that whirl and die. Wake! for the bearded goat devours the door! And now the family pig forbears to snore, And from his trough sets up the Persian’s cry— “Eat! drink! To-morrow we shall be no more!” Eat, drink and sleep! Aye, eat and sleep who can! I work and ache. The beast outstrips the man; And when oblivion bids the sequence end, Which shall we say has best filled nature’s plan? When on Gowanus’ hills the whistle blows What dreams are mine of Hafiz’ wine-red rose? And when I drag my leaden feet toward home No sensuous bulbul note woos to repose. I envy the dull brute my hand shall slay. He lifts no stolid eye above the clay. I, longing, on the cloud-banked verge discern “Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.” What is the Cup to lips that may not drain? Or fleeting joy to lives conceived in pain? Toil and aspire is still the common lot, Stumbling to rise and rising fall again. And is this all? Shall skies no longer shine, Or stars lure on to themes that seem divine? Ah, Maker of the Tents! is this thy hope— To feed and grovel and to die like swine? W. M.