 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
THE MUSE
Being yet in life, that is so feeble spark,
Which hangeth on daily bread and mortal breath:
Durst thou, in frailty óf thy clayling flesh;
Descend with Mansoul, tó Dead Worlds beneath;
Thou an offspring of dead flesh, before thy death?
To fearful converse hold, with pulseless spirits:
That in dark Realm of souls forgotten, sleep:
Touching hid knowledge and more perfect paths?
Which hangeth on daily bread and mortal breath:
Durst thou, in frailty óf thy clayling flesh;
Descend with Mansoul, tó Dead Worlds beneath;
Thou an offspring of dead flesh, before thy death?
To fearful converse hold, with pulseless spirits:
That in dark Realm of souls forgotten, sleep:
Touching hid knowledge and more perfect paths?
Thereto, must thou all lively cheer forsake,
Thy trade of life, Worlds wonted fellowship:
To be sad guest of Hels tremendous House;
Where Time is not: hear rusty ádamant doors,
Of stone, clapt fearful to, behind thy back;
Bars drawn; and thou still to continue forth!
Thy trade of life, Worlds wonted fellowship:
To be sad guest of Hels tremendous House;
Where Time is not: hear rusty ádamant doors,
Of stone, clapt fearful to, behind thy back;
Bars drawn; and thou still to continue forth!
Know furthermore, is Hels Abysm unlíke,
Fantastic dream of any groundling wit.
Unhewn there sunless labyrinthine crypts,
And fearful bays, lie ever further forth:
Where, ín their thousand generations, sleep,
From all World's coasts, souls after their deserts;
Laid up, deep under deep; more than trees' leaves;
Might they be numbered, and Earths blades of grass.
Fantastic dream of any groundling wit.
Unhewn there sunless labyrinthine crypts,
And fearful bays, lie ever further forth:
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From all World's coasts, souls after their deserts;
Laid up, deep under deep; more than trees' leaves;
Might they be numbered, and Earths blades of grass.
With bowed head, I responded, in my trance;
Nathless I jeopardy would what few days' life,
May yet to me remain, before I pass:
And might, even darkly, O Foster, I approach;
To that Chief One, of thé eternal mysteries;
Which hidden is from foundation of the Earth.
Nathless I jeopardy would what few days' life,
May yet to me remain, before I pass:
And might, even darkly, O Foster, I approach;
To that Chief One, of thé eternal mysteries;
Which hidden is from foundation of the Earth.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |