AN IDEAL FUTURE by T. ARUNDEL HARCOURT

I SELDOM ponder the "future life,"
I hold it a waste of thought, you see,
For the most that a man may know is this:
That which is coming will surely be.
To those who find comfort in baseless faith
I leave the old myth in its newest dress,
For I can't cry @3credo@1 the while the creed
Is at most but a clumsy guess.

Yet I've often thought, if one had his choice
Of all the heavens that man has made,
Which would he choose for his dwelling-place
When his soul (myth again) from his body strayed?
I've thought them over from first to last, --
Scarce one, I'm sure, did my fancy miss, --
And I found that while all contained much good,
Still not one offered perfect bliss.

There's Nirvana, the region of "blowing out,"
Where the Buddhist's soul in a stupor lies;
Pain enters not on that endless rest,
Yet who could such an existence prize?
Better have done with it, once for all, --
Be utterly nothing when death is past, --
Than pester one's self to redeem one's soul,
And then come to this end at last.

There were light and life in the Blessed Isles;
Still nobody seemed to exactly know
How he might merit those Happy Fields,
Or in which direction his soul might go.
It wasn't a question of good and bad;
Only the pets of the gods went there,
And Pluto's realm might receive a man
Of virtue and valor rare.

Valhalla offered a "lively time,"
Enough of excitement was there, at least;
It was guzzle and swill, then fight and kill,
Then come to life for another feast.
But, mercy on us! a foeman's skull
A very suggestive wine-cup makes,
And it can't be pleasant to lose one's head
Just after each meal one takes.

In the Indian's Happy Hunting-grounds
A sporting spirit were fitly placed;
But eternal camping-out won't suit
A soul possessed of more varied taste.
Though a squaw has charms for her russet beau,
She has passing few for you and me,
And Eden devoid of a pretty face
Would a cheerless Eden be.

"Then turn to Mahomet's Paradise,"
I think I hear you in triumph say;
"Bathed in the light of the houris' eyes
Your taste for beauty can have full play."
Softly, O friend! thou hast heard it said
Enough of a thing is good as a feast;
My ideas of "enough" of such company
Don't agree with those of the East.

And thus in each heaven I find a flaw;
From first to last there is none complete;
Not one where a dreaming epicure
Can paint existence as nought but sweet.
He has to take an idea from each
To build an Eden of perfect bliss;
Tastes differ -- but mine would assume a shape
Nearly, or quite, like this:

Elysium's glory at break of day,
The Hunting-grounds in the cool of morn,
Valhalla's banquet at glowing eve,
And the houris' soft embrace till dawn;
Nirvana's rest when the day is done,
For a blessing not to be lost is sleep,
And weariness is a pleasant boon,
That maketh the slumber deep.

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