And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
But Omar was greater than most of the weak and sinning children of to-day. His own frailties taught him the rare lesson, that of all the virtues, charity is the chiefest! And as we read the wondrous product of his brain and understand the thoughts that stirred his being, we can know the man better than his neighbors who judged a great soul by the narrow vision of sordid minds. We know that his purpose was lofty, and above all the mists and conflicting emotions and desires of his life he rose majestic and supreme, unsullied by the specks that can only mar the weak. Let us turn then to the philosophy and poetry of this great soul to know the man, and as figs are not gathered of thistles, we may be sure that broad thoughts, high aspirations, and tender charity are born only of great minds and rare men.
To Omar Khayyam, the so-called sins of men were not crimes, but weaknesses inherent in their being and beyond their power to prevent or overcome. He knew that man could not separate himself from all the rest of nature; and that the rules and conditions of his being were as fixed and absolute as the revolutions of the planets and the changing seasons of the year. Above man and his works he saw the heavy hand of destiny, ever guiding and controlling, ever moving its creature forward to the inevitable fate that all the centuries had placed in store for the helpless captive, marching shackled to the block.
There have ever been two views of life. Both philosophies have been made by man and mostly for him. One places him above all the rest of the universe, whose infinite mysteries are constantly revolving and changing before his hazy, wondering gaze. The portion of the world that comes nearest to his eyes he cannot understand, and his own existence is a riddle that all the ages have not solved. And yet, amidst it all, one system teaches that man rules supreme,—and the fate of all the worlds, or of all that may exist thereon, has no relation to his own. The other peers into the thick darkness that hangs above, and can see no light, it does not understand and will not guess; the endless mysteries are not for mortal man to solve. Its devotees feel themselves part of a mighty whole, and are powerless to separate their lives from all the rest, and would not dare to undertake it if they could. They know that in the great, unlimited universe they are less than the tiniest bubble in the wildest, angriest sea. That in the words of the Rubaiyat:
We are no other than a moving row
Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show.
Omar Khayyam was probably not the first, certainly not the last, to feel the impotence of man in the great power which animates the whole. He could have no faith in the cruel religious tenets, which eight centuries ago in Persia, as ever since in the Christian world, have taught the responsibility of the helpless victim for the great, blind work in which he had no part. He seemed to think that back of all the universe, some intelligent power moved and controlled the world for some purpose unknown to all except himself, but he could not think that man was in any way accountable for the whole. To him, the great master sent us here or there to suit his will, and it was left for us only to obey his mighty power. The individual units of humanity were to him only: