But to Atma it was the symbol of a lost love. He looked on it
listlessly. It seemed a long while since Moti died, for in his heart
joy, and hope, and youth had died since. The immortal destiny of man, a
belief dear to the Sikh, seemed a thing indifferent. Death might not be
final, but it was yesterday he mourned, and of it he said: "it is past."
He knew of the soul's Immortality, but of the Continuity of Life he had
not heard, * * * * * Dear Life, cling close, true friend, thro' well or ill,
Mine aye, we cannot part our company.
Though breathing cease and busy heart be still,
Together will we wake eternally.
Strange Life, in whose immeasurable clasp,
The past, the present and the vast to be
Mingle,--O Time, the world is for thy grasp,
I and my life for immortality.
Those bygone hours that were too bright to stay,
And vanished from my sight like morning mist,
Will dawn again, and, ne'er to fade away,
The fleeting moments endlessly exist.
The present lives, the past and future twine;
My life, my days forevermore endure.
My life--it comes I know not whence, but mine
For aye 'twill be, indissolubly sure.
* * * * * When the night drew on, Atma went away. In thought Bertram followed him,
full of sad solicitude.
He strode along the heights. The cooling air and the sense of isolation
were grateful to his worn spirit. He wandered far until he found himself
in a rocky fortress, vast, black and terrible. The lowering peaks above
inclined their giant heads to one another in awful conclave, and the
ghastly moonbeams pierced to the gloom below, where they enwrapped the
lonely form of Atma in a phosphorescent glare. The winds broke among the
cliffs, and with shrieks and fearful laughter proclaimed the dark
councils of the peaks, and in the din were heard mutterings and
imprecations. A transport seized the soul of Atma. The horrible glee of
the night awoke wrath, and he hurled defiance to the mocking winds.
"What! are th' infernal powers moved for me,
That all the hosts of hell me welcome give,
And claim me comrade in their revelry?
Abhorrent things, I am not yours, I live,
I know I live because I think on death!
I live, dead things, to revel among tombs,
A ghoul, henceforth I feast on buried joys,
My soul the burial-place, where lie, beneath
A fearful night of cries and hellish spumes,
My lovely youth with jovial convoys,
Hopes, happy-eyed, and linked solaces,
And in the lapse of hateful years they will--
My guileless joys, my rose-hued memories--
Corrupt and rot and turn to venomed ill.