‘Tis but a case of mania: subinduced By epilepsy, at the turning-point { 80} Of trance prolonged unduly some three days; When, by the exhibition of some drug Or spell, exorcization, stroke of art Unknown to me and which ‘twere well to know, The evil thing, out-breaking, all at once, Left the man whole and sound of body indeed,-- But, flinging (so to speak) life’s gates too wide, Making a clear house of it too suddenly, The first conceit that entered might inscribe Whatever it was minded on the wall { 90} So plainly at that vantage, as it were (First come, first served), that nothing subsequent Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls The just-returned and new-established soul Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart That henceforth she will read or these or none. And first--the man’s own firm conviction rests That he was dead (in fact they buried him) --That he was dead and then restored to life By a Nazarene physician of his tribe: { 100} --‘Sayeth, the same bade “Rise”, and he did rise. “Such cases are diurnal”, thou wilt cry. Not so this figment!--not, that such a fume, Instead of giving way to time and health, Should eat itself into the life of life, As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones, and all! For see, how he takes up the after-life. The man--it is one Lazarus a Jew, Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age, The body’s habit wholly laudable, { 110} As much, indeed, beyond the common health As he were made and put aside to show. Think, could we penetrate by any drug And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, And bring it clear and fair, by three days’ sleep! Whence has the man the balm that brightens all? This grown man eyes the world now like a child. Some elders of his tribe, I should premise, Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep, To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, { 120} Now sharply, now with sorrow,--told the case,-- He listened not except I spoke to him, But folded his two hands and let them talk, Watching the flies that buzzed: and yet no fool. And that’s a sample how his years must go. Look if a beggar, in fixed middle-life, Should find a treasure,--can he use the same With straitened habits and with tastes starved small, And take at once to his impoverished brain The sudden element that changes things, { 130} That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand, And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? Is he not such an one as moves to mirth-- Warily parsimonious, when no need, Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? All prudent counsel as to what befits The golden mean, is lost on such an one: The man’s fantastic will is the man’s law. So here--we call the treasure knowledge, say, Increased beyond the fleshly faculty-- { 140} Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, Earth forced on a soul’s use while seeing heaven: The man is witless of the size, the sum, The value in proportion of all things, Or whether it be little or be much. Discourse to him of prodigious armaments Assembled to besiege his city now, And of the passing of a mule with gourds-- ‘Tis one! Then take it on the other side, Speak of some trifling fact,--he will gaze rapt { 150} With stupor at its very littleness (Far as I see), as if in that indeed He caught prodigious import, whole results; And so will turn to us the by-standers In ever the same stupor (note this point), That we, too, see not with his opened eyes. Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, Preposterously, at cross purposes. Should his child sicken unto death,--why, look For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, { 160} Or pretermission of the daily craft! While a word, gesture, glance from that same child At play or in the school or laid asleep, Will startle him to an agony of fear, Exasperation, just as like. Demand The reason why--“‘tis but a word,” object-- “A gesture”--he regards thee as our lord Who lived there in the pyramid alone, Looked at us (does thou mind?) when, being young, We both would unadvisedly recite { 170} Some charm’s beginning, from that book of his, Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst All into stars, as suns grown old are wont. Thou and the child have each a veil alike Thrown o’er your heads, from under which ye both Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye know! He holds on firmly to some thread of life-- (It is the life to lead perforcedly) Which runs across some vast, distracting orb { 180} Of glory on either side that meagre thread, Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet-- The spiritual life around the earthly life: The law of that is known to him as this, His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here.