he spheres of
colours and of images have been shown to him. At length, he entered the
colourless region. He has now attained to the Unity, doubt and scepticism
henceforth have no power over him. No one sees the Unity with the outward
eye, till the inward eye gains strength and power.'"

I cannot pass from this branch of the subject without making a few remarks
on Omar Khayyam, the great Astronomer-Poet of Persia. He is sometimes
confounded with the Sufis, for there is much in his poetry which is similar
{99} in tone to that of the Sufi writers. But his true position was that of
a sceptic. He wrote little, but what he has written will live. As an
astronomer he was a man of note. He died in the year 517 A.H. There are two
things which may have caused his scepticism. To a man of his intelligence
the hard and fast system of Islam was an intolerable burden. Then, his
scientific spirit had little sympathy with mysticism, the earnest
enthusiasts of which were too often followed by hollow impostors. It is
true, that there was much in the spirit of some of the better Sufis that
seemed to show a yearning for something higher than mere earthly good;
above all, there was the recognition of a Higher Power. But with all this
came spiritual pride, the world and its duties became a thing of evil, and
the religious and the secular life were completely divorced, to the ruin of
both. The Pantheism which soon pervaded the system left no room for man's
will to act, for his conscience to guide. So the moral law become a dead
letter. Irreligious men, to free themselves from the bondage and restraints
of law, assumed the religious life. "Thus a movement, animated at first by
a high and lofty purpose, has degenerated into a fruitful source of ill.
The stream which ought to have expanded into a fertilising river has become
a vast swamp, exhaling vapours charged with disease and death."

Omar Khayyam saw through the unreality of all this. In vain does he try, by
an assumed air of gaiety, to hide from others the sadness which fills his
heart, as all that is bright is seen passing away into oblivion.

One moment in annihilation's waste,
One moment, of the well of life to taste--
The stars are setting and the Caravan
Starts for the dawn of nothing--oh, make haste!

Ah, fill the cup:--what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our feet:
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if To-day be sweet.

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