There is truth in the wildest scheme that imaginative heat hath engendered, And a man may gather somewhat from the crudest theories of fancy: The alchymist laboureth in folly, but catcheth chance gleams of wisdom, And findeth out many inventions, though his crucible breed not gold; The sinner, toying with witchcraft, thinketh to delude his fellows, But there be very spirits of evil, and what if they come at his bidding? He is a bold bad man who dareth to tamper with the dead; For their whereabout lieth in a mystery--that vestibule leading to Eternity, The waiting-room for unclad ghosts, before the presence-chamber of their King: Mind may act upon mind, though bodies be far divided; For the life is in the blood, but souls communicate unseen: And the heat of an excited intellect, radiating to its fellows, Doth kindle dry leaves afar off, while the green wood around it is unwarmed. The dog may have a spirit, as well as his brutal master; A spirit to live in happiness: for why should he be robbed of his existence? Hath he not a conscience of evil, a glimmer of moral sense, Love and hatred, courage and fear, and visible shame and pride? There may be a future rest for the patient victims of the cruel; And a season allotted for their bliss, to compensate for unjust suffering. Spurn not at seeming error, but dig below its surface for the truth; And beware of seeming truths, that grow on the roots of error: For comely are the apples that spring from the Dead Sea's cursed shore, But within are they dust and ashes, and the hand that plucked them shall rue it.