The poor mere instrument of things ordain’d,
Doing or suffering, impotent alike
To will or act, ... perpetually bemock’d
With semblance of volition, yet in all
Blind worker of the ways of destiny!
That thought intolerable, which in the hour
Of woe indignant conscience had repell’d,
As little might it find reception now,
When the regenerate spirit self-approved
Beheld its sacrifice complete. With faith