IN HIS Cell ON M OUNT A THOS

Y OU hear their blasphemies, O God,
These helots of Mahomet!
Like glutton dogs are they — that turn
Again to their own vomit.
For Heaven, say they, is a place
Of silks and wines and swooning
All day on deep divans, while round
Are houris, love-lutes tuning.
Bright houris — three-score for the couch
Of each accurst believer —
And all black-eyed and beautiful —
The Fiend is their deceiver!
They say this in their pride, O God,
While we dwell on our rock —
Which never woman's foot has trod
Will you still let them mock!

They say that Heaven is a place
Of riches, slaves, and pleasure,
Where every soothing thrill of sense
Is lengthened — past all measure —
Till a full age of easesome bliss
Is packed in every second —
Only by lips that kiss and hands
Caressing to be reckoned!
And, in this carnal Paradise,
They say Christ dwells, a prophet —
But lesser than Mahomet is! —
God, is it not but Tophet!
They say this in their scorn of us
Who shut from out our brain
All memory of woman, thus,
Upon hard beds of pain.

So curse them, God, in every land —
To whom Thy Holy Spirit
Is but a wind, with frankincense
And spices to endear it,
Which blows across their Paradise
To sweeten the caresses
Of every houri who attends
Their evil idlenesses.
Curse them with barrenness and send
Their souls to Hell for ever,
With women's souls just opposite,
Beyond their want's endeavour.
Then in Thy skies — though Christ saith clear
That none sent thither wed —
Let each who shunned all women here
On one there rest his head!