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[192] I proved the prophets false, I pricked
     The bubble of perfection,
And clapped upon their inner light
     The snuffers of election.

And looking backward on my times,
     This credit I am taking;
I kept each sectary's dish apart,
     No spiritual chowder making.

Where now the blending signs of sect
     Would puzzle their assorter,
The dry-shod Quaker kept the land,
     The Baptist held the water.

A common coat now serves for both,
     The hat's no more a fixture;
And which was wet and which was dry,
     Who knows in such a mixture?

Well! He who fashioned Peter's dream
     To bless them all is able;
And bird and beast and creeping thing
     Make clean upon His table!

I walked by my own light; but when
     The ways of faith divided,
Was I to force unwilling feet
     To tread the path that I did?

I touched the garment-hem of truth,
     Yet saw not all its splendor;
I knew enough of doubt to feel
     For every conscience tender.

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Quaker (Missouri, United States) (1)

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