This text is part of:
[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.
This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License.
An XML version of this text is available for download, with the additional restriction that you offer Perseus any modifications you make. Perseus provides credit for all accepted changes, storing new additions in a versioning system.