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 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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