—­’Sayeth, the same bade “Rise,” and he did rise. 
“Such cases are diurnal,” thou wilt cry. 
Not so this figment!—­not, that such a fume,
Instead of giving way to time and health,
Should eat itself into the life of life,
As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones and all! 
For see, how he takes up the after-life. 
The man—­it is one Lazarus a Jew,
Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age,
The body’s habit wholly laudable, 110
As much, indeed, beyond the common health
As he were made and put aside to show. 
Think, could we penetrate by any drug
And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh,
And bring it clear and fair, by three days’ sleep! 
Whence has the man the balm that brightens all? 
This grown man eyes the world now like a child. 
Some elders of his tribe, I should premise,
Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep,
To bear my inquisition.  While they spoke, 120
Now sharply, now with sorrow, told the case,
He listened not except I spoke to him,
But folded his two hands and let them talk,
Watching the flies that buzzed:  and yet no fool. 
And that’s a sample how his years must go. 
Look, if a beggar, in fixed middle-life,
Should find a treasure, can he use the same
With straitened habits and with tastes starved small,
And take at once to his impoverished brain
The sudden element that changes things, 130
That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand
And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? 
Is he not such an one as moves to mirth—­
Warily parsimonious, when no need,
Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? 
All prudent counsel as to what befits
The golden mean, is lost on such an one: 
The man’s fantastic will is the man’s law. 
So here—­we call the treasure knowledge, say,
Increased beyond the fleshly faculty—­ 140
Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth,
Earth forced on a soul’s use while seeing heaven: 
The man is witless of the size, the sum,
The value in proportion of all things,
Or whether it be little or be much. 
Discourse to him of prodigious armaments
Assembled to besiege his city now,
And of the passing of a mule with gourds—­
’T is one!  Then take it on the other side,
Speak of some trifling fact, he will gaze rapt 150
With stupor at its very littleness,
(Far as I see) as if in that indeed
He caught prodigious import, whole results;
And so will turn to us the bystanders
In ever the same stupor (note this point)
That we too see not with his opened eyes. 
Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play,
Preposterously, at cross purposes. 
Should his child sicken unto death, why, look
For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, 160
Or pretermission of the daily craft! 
While a word, gesture, glance from that same child