The field of Fate lies open; nothing bars Our progress there. A thousand different ways The path diverges. Every by-path leads To some foul pit or bottomless abyss. Along each side are strewed the whitening bones Of venturous pilgrims, lost amid its snares, Some broken on the rocks of gross decree, Who hold an unchanged destiny from birth; Who will not take a medicine if sick, Who cant of “To be, will be,” and the time Unalterably set to each man’s life. Some stranded on the finer form of Fate, Who say it works by means. Hence they believe In using all preventives to disease, In going boating in a rubber belt, In placing Franklin rods upon a house, In preaching, and in praying men repent. These, when one dies, cry out, “It was his time.” Or if he should recover, “It was not.” Their fate is always ex post facto fate, And knowing not the future, they abide The issue of events, and then confirm Their dogged dogmas. Still another class, Though fewer far in numbers, perish here. These are the sophists; men who deeply dive Beneath the surface of effect, and trace Our actions to their source. They find that man, Made in the glorious image of his God, Is not an independent cause, but works From motive causes out of his control. They find that every mental act must flow From outside source, then fearlessly ascend The chain of being to a height divine, And dare to fetter the Eternal mind, And throw their bonds around Omnipotence. As well a spider in an eagle’s nest Might, from his hidden web among the twigs, Attempt to throw his little gluey thread Around the mottled wing, whose muscled strength Beats hurried vacuums in the ocean’s spray, Or circling upward, parts the thunder-cloud, And bursts above; and shaking off the mists, With rigid feathers bright as burnished steel, Floats proudly through the tranquil air. Which realm Shall now be mine, Free-Will or Fate? The one Stands open wide, but all in ruin ends; The other, fair if once within the pale; But how to scale the barriers none can tell. Bah! all is doubt. I’ll leave the mystic paths Where, on each side, are ranged the phantom shapes Of disputants, alive and dead, who fight, With foolish zeal, o’er myths intangible; When each one cries “Eureka!” for his creed. That scarcely lives a day, then yields its place. A Roman ’gainst a Roman, Greek to Greek, A zealous Omar with an Ali paired; A saintly Pharisee in hot dispute With Sadducees. Along th’ illustrious rows Of lesser lights, who advocate the creeds Of their respective masters, we descend To later days and see Titanic minds Exert their giant strength to reach the truth, And, baffled, fall. Locke, ever elsewhere clear,