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[190] Methinks I see that reverend form,
     Which all of us so well know:
He rises up to speak; he jogs
     The presidential elbow.

‘Good friends,’ he says, “you reap a field
     I sowed in self-denial,
For toleration had its griefs
     And charity its trial.

Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More,
     To him must needs be given
Who heareth heresy and leaves
     The heretic to Heaven!

I hear again the snuffled tones,
     I see in dreary vision
Dyspeptic dreamers, spiritual bores,
     And prophets with a mission.

Each zealot thrust before my eyes
     His Scripture-garbled label;
All creeds were shouted in my ears
     As with the tongues of Babel.

Scourged at one cart-tail, each denied
     The hope of every other;
Each martyr shook his branded fist
     At the conscience of his brother!—

How cleft the dreary drone of man
     The shriller pipe of woman,
As Gorton led his saints elect,
     Who held all things in common!

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Gorton (1)
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