Bribed With A Little
Sunlight And A Few Prismatic Tints, We Bless Our Maker, And Stave
Off His Wrath With Hymns.
I make ye an offer,
Ye gods, hear the scoffer,
The scheme will not hurt you,
If ye will
Find goodness, I will find virtue.
Though I am your creature,
And child of your nature,
I have pride still unbended,
And blood undescended,
Some free independence,
And my own descendants.
I cannot toil blindly,
Though ye behave kindly,
And I swear by the rood,
I'll be slave to no God.
If ye will deal plainly,
I will strive mainly,
If ye will discover,
Great plans to your lover,
And give him a sphere
Somewhat larger than here.
"Verily, my angels! I was abashed on account of my servant, who
had no Providence but me; therefore did I pardon him." - _The
Gulistan of Sadi._
Most people with whom I talk, men and women even of some
originality and genius, have their scheme of the universe all cut
and dried, - very _dry_, I assure you, to hear, dry enough to
burn, dry-rotted and powder-post, methinks, - which they set up
between you and them in the shortest intercourse; an ancient and
tottering frame with all its boards blown off. They do not walk
without their bed. Some, to me, seemingly very unimportant and
unsubstantial things and relations, are for them everlastingly
settled, - as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and the like. These
are like the everlasting hills to them. But in all my wanderings
I never came across the least vestige of authority for these
things.
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