One night Atma dreamed a dream which greatly disturbed his waking
thoughts. He lay in the shadow of an overhanging rock, and in deep sleep
fancied that he descried therein a door which was securely barred. But
although it was closed, there issued from it aroma of most subtle
perfumes, which seemed to enter the brain and incite the energies to a
maddening desire of possession, while there floated around him strains
of music whose sweetness filled the soul with sorrow of itself. In his
dream he tried the heavy bolts in vain. All was fast. He yielded to
despair, and dashed himself against the rocky portal in anguish of
disappointment. But grief wore itself out, and he thought that he
presently lay on the ground, bruised and exhausted. The charmed
fragrance still enwrapt him, and the seductive melody filled the air.
Sad and benumbed he yielded himself to their influence, and his ear then
detected in the ethereal harmony an articulate utterance. An ineffable
intonation melodiously spoke: "It opes to a key that is golden,
Within it a spirit lies folden,
The soul of all matchless delight.
All graces familiar or olden,
Propitious thine entrance invite."
He now dimly perceived the golden key to glitter in the air. It came
near to him, and he took it into his hand from where it lay on a pillow
of mist. When he held it, the rocky door, though still fastened, no
longer hid from view the loveliness of the grotto. He saw walls bedecked
with gleaming jewels, marvellous flowers, and countless silver lamps,
whilst everywhere were traced in precious gems the sayings of the Wise
of all ages. Winged creatures, whose looks spoke of loving and perfect
service, seemed to await his command.
A great fear seized him lest so beautiful a vision should presently
fade, and he would have rushed to unbar the entrance, his eyes dimming
with tears of love and sorrow. But a second voice sounded from above
more solemnly sweet than the first-"Beware! beware!
To abide none enter there;
All you see is but a portal
Leading on to the Immortal;
Though it be so fair, so fair,
Enter, not to tarry there;
Idle tears, your torrent stay--
Beauty, it is consecrate
And can never fade away;
Change it will, be re-create,
Born from narrow things to great."
But the first voice pleaded again. Together they sang, and strangely
enough they harmonized. Not that the celestial utterance lent itself to
the lighter measure, but the nearer song took a softer cadence and
borrowed a new persuasion from the greater. Passionate grew the
pleading, more alluring the radiant retreat. The heart of Atma, ever
open to the influence of the good, cried to the solemn voice above for
help.