No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the light
Of the blessed sun, e’er blasted human sight
With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those
The Impostor now, in grinning mockery, shows:
‘There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star,
Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are.
Is it enough? Or must I, while a thrill
Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?’”
Thus it is, pursued to the very grave-edge, these victims loathe the drug they once loved. Business is gone, family broken, friends lost, moral sense blunted or destroyed, mind incapable of healthy action, body wrecked, and they see no hope here or hereafter.