‘When I would search the truths that in me burn,
And mould them into rule and argument,
A hundred reasoners cried, —’Hast thou to learn
Those dreams are scatter’d now, those fires are spent?’
And, did I mount to simpler thoughts, and try
Some theme of peace, ’twas still the same reply.
Perplex’d, I hoped my heart was pure of guile,
But judged me weak in wit, to disagree;
But now, I see that men are mad awhile,
‘Tis the old history—Truth without a home,
Despised and slain, then rising from the tomb.’