The world’s a self-adjusting, vast machine, Whose human comparts cannot guide themselves; And each is but a puppet to the whole, Yet adds its mite towards its government; Here, in this motive circle, lies all Fate. Our fellow-men with motives furnish us, While we contribute to their motive fund. The real power, hidden deep within, Escapes the eye of careless consciousness; Who proudly tells us we are action’s cause. Upon this error men, mistaken, raise The edifice of law in all its forms; That yet performs its varied functions well, Because it offers motives that restrain, Till stronger overcome, and crime ensues. The motive gibbet lifts its warning arms; The pillory gapes its scolloped lips for necks; The lash grows stiff with blood and shreds of flesh; The treadmill yields beneath the wearied feet; And Sabbath after Sabbath preachers tell Of judgment, and of awful Hell, and Heaven; All these, to stronger make, than lust of sin. And yet, to lead my reasoning to its end, I find a chaos of absurdity. If I am by an unruled motive driven, Why act at all? Why passive not recline Upon the lap of destiny, and wait her arms? Why struggle to acquire means of life, When Fate must fill our mouths or let us die? Why go not naked forth into the world, And trust to Fate for clothes? Why spring aside From falling weight, or flee a burning house, Or fight with instinct strength the clasp of waves? Because we cannot help it; every act Behind it has a motive, whose command We, willing or unwilling, must obey. Law governs motives, motives create law; Between the reflex action man is placed, The helpless shuttlecock of unjust Fate! Now passive driven to commit a crime, Then by the driver laid upon the rack; A Zeno’s slave, compelled by Fate to steal, And then compelled by Fate to bear the lash!