But it is a spiritual touch, sympathy with that which aileth:
Pain or fear may dislocate and shatter this delicate machinery of nerves;
But madness proveth mind: the fault is in the engine, not the impetus:
Dissipate the mists of matter, lo, the soul is clear:
Timour's cage bowed it in the dust; but now it goeth forth a freedman.
Yet more, there is reason in moralities, that the soul must live;
If God be king in heaven, or have care for earth.
Can wickedness have triumphed with impunity, or virtue toiled unseen?
Shall cruelty torture unavenged, and the innocent complain unheard?
Is there no recompense for woe, must there be no other world for justice,—