"When I would search the truths that in me burn,And mould them into rule and argument,A hundred reasoners cried,—'Hast thou to learnThose dreams are scatter'd now, those fires are spent?'And, did I mount to simpler thoughts, and trySome 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."