Of things, with leveling Chaos plead afresh some chance For nobler being and the worthier life? Or, say, that doubting vastly his at all retrieve, Since still petitioned on crude lines of This, Grudged, narrowed, and beset with voidless happenings of the mortal hour: Say that: Hence, judging nothing blessed that he might contrive, And, lest things that had been from their graves stand forth, Teem their once imperfections, all infirm they bore, Yea, on mere vision of the dread event, Cry wildly out against the Call, That, taunting, drew them from Death's perfect shade, To stalk once more, at dull repeat, Or fevered rush--one goal for both-- Their weary paces in some time-bound Here, Its hope unpremised, and no Hence made out: Say that--all that--and, were it better not, were it not wise, If yet so judging from what lay at hand, Such guess to go by and provide a cue-- Were it better not, were it not well, Might faith not do it, and the sense subscribe, Let it come to this, if words may broach it, May bear out the thought: to this--that man call down, Call clamorous down, as only umpire twixt All What and Not; twixt blind Reliance-- Her yet remnant there--her fond contention, And the crucial Fact; as sole unraveler Of thick webs of False; for lasting clearance Of the perjured Fates, that usurp thin image To the trick of True--Call wildly down, All hearts clean emptied of their bane, the pride-- If Miracle knew how; might holily, not grossly, do it-- No breather left not, whom the riddance bore Not in its sorry and unhallowed stead-- Crude absence presenced, and new light let in-- Some sacred, lofty, and prophetic strain, Which so should dare it, and, Which, curb to Fear, did dread no Judgment, Not appealed with this--that each cause that Drew him, and each star that led, Must find him shelter, nay, close-challenged, stand His clear accessory before the fact, Like found, in common, with indicted man:-- Which so should dare-- All this premise yielded, and its case at rest-- Call fondly down, While the infinite Mercies, sitting wide 'bove All, Did, scruteless Justicers, take up the claim, Which Pain and Sorrow for the world-heart draws, And, which, past all precedent, would thus call down-- Ere Grace pronounce it, ere its fiat fall, Against some boundless Issue, some yet Pure toward, Unstained, surely, by gross touch of him, Man's wayward intimate, sore licensed Time, For his purgation and clear suit of all-- Would dare call down--yea, righteous down-- All breathers joining, of a mind for once, Accord achieved, and a truce at last, No thought so common, nor no wish so near As that this scene be halted, and the long act done, Its show a burden, and its flaunt a woe,--