CXXVI.

Our life is a false nature--'tis not in The harmony of things,--this hard decree, This uneradicable taint of Sin, This boundless Upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is Earth--whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew-- Disease, death, bondage--all the woes we see, And worse, the woes we see not--which throb through The immedicable soul,[503] with heart-aches ever new.