SEVEN weary centuries ere our star-like Christ
Rose on the clouded heavens of mortal faith
Gautama came, the stern high priest of death,
Oblivion's sombre, dark evangelist.
Millions of souls hath this dread creed enticed
To wander lost through realms of baleful breath,
Ghoul-haunted, rife with shapes of sin and scath,
Monstrous, yet dim, as births of midnight mist:
All life, he taught, hath been, all life must be
Accursed! the gift of demons! All delight
Lies at the far-off goal of pulseless peace.
"Pray," sighed he, "that this breath of men shall cease;
Our hell is earth, our heaven eternal night;
Our only godhead vague Nonentity!"
