In Siberia’s wastes The ice-wind’s breath Woundeth like the toothèd steel; Lost Siberia doth reveal Only blight and death.Blight and death alone. No … - James Clarence Mangan

To this khan, and from this khan How many pilgrims came and went too!
In this khan, and by this khan What arts were spent, what hearts were rent too!
To this khan and from this khan (Which, for penance, man is sent to)
Many a van and caravan Crowded came, and shrouded went too.
Christian man and Mussulman, Guebre, heathen, Jew, and Gentoo,
To this khan, and from this khan, Weeping came, and sleeping went too.
A riddle this since time began, Which many a sage his mind hath bent to:
All came, all went; but never man Knew whence they came, or where they went to!

Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
God will inspire me while I deliver My soul of thee!Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last homes of youth and eld,
That once there was one whose veins ran lightning No eye beheld.Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,
No star of all heaven sends to light our Path to the tomb.Roll on, my song, and to after ages Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,
He would have taught men, from wisdom’s pages, The way to live.And tell how trampled, derided, hated, And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
He fled for shelter to God, who mated His soul with song.—With song which alway, sublime or vapid, Flow’d like a rill in the morning beam,
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid: A mountain stream.Tell how this Nameless, condemn’d for years long To herd with demons from hell beneath,
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long For even death.Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Betray’d in friendship, befool’d in love,
With spirit shipwreck’d, and young hopes blasted, He still, still strove;Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others (And some whose hands should have wrought for him,
If children live not for sires and mothers), His mind grew dim;And he fell far through that pit abysmal, The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,
And pawn’d his soul for the devil’s dismal Stock of returns.But yet redeem’d it in days of darkness, And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Stood on his path.And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
He bides in calmness the silent morrow, That no ray lights.And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
He lives, enduring what future story Will never know.Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!
He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell.

Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest
But the surest teacher is the heart;
Studying that and that alone, thou learnest
Best and soonest whence and what thou art.Time, not travel, 'tis which gives us ready
Speech, experience, prudence, tact, and wit:
Far more light the lamp that bideth steady
Than the wandering lantern doth emit.Moor, Chinese, Egyptian, Russian, Roman,
Tread one common down-hill path of doom;
Everywhere the names are man and woman,
Everywhere the old sad sins find room.Evil angels tempt us in all places.
What but sands or snows hath earth to give?
Dream not, friend, of deserts and oases;
But look inwards, and begin to live.