And those pledges which between man and
heaven held by rapt contrivance, stumblings,
stutterings, and the visions of wan, rheumy eyes?
And those infatuated ordinances scratched upon
the stubborn tablets of persuasion? Those
promises of multiple remissions, mercies like days,
a flow of timeless time? Has nothing yet been
everlasting, nothing yet locked from forfeit,
certain beyond faith, logic, or conjecture?
Nothing yet. It has all been but trial, man’s
private humour of things unplain. Heaven
was the mist, thoughts left unthought, blind
scheming, unvoiced secrecies. So they who plot
against a king enthroned do reference to a
ghost-king. Their king is a something born of
whispers, sanction of craven charters, whose
signature’s their own. Herein, then, the consequence,
the hindrance, panic’s thoughtless presumption of
eventuality, through tyranny forsworn, a threat
invented of security breached, ensuing mass
hysteria, delusion’s awe-struck fearfulness.
All hope but vanity betrayed, the public, player
and played, demand their own enslavement.