XLI.

 Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
 To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
   And lose your fingers in the tresses of
 The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.


XLII.

 And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
 End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
   Think then you are TO-DAY what YESTERDAY
 You were--TO-MORROW you shall not be less.


XLIII.

 So when that Angel of the darker Drink
 At last shall find you by the river-brink,
   And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
 Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.


XLIV.

 Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
 And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
   Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
 In this clay carcass crippled to abide?


XLV.

 'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
 A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
   The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
 Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.