Classic Poem

When I would search the truths that in me burn,
And mould them into rule and argument,
A hundred reasoners cried, — " Hast thou to learn
Those dreams are scatter'd now, those fires are spent? "
And, did I mount to simpler thoughts, and try
Some 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,
And joy the Age to come will think with me: —
'Tis the old history — Truth without a home,
Despised and slain, then rising from the tomb.