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46 Adjudicated quarrels of mankind, Brown row on row!—how well these lawyers bind Their records of dead sin,—as if they feared The hate might spill and their long shelves be smeared With slime of human souls,—brown row on row Span on Philistine span, a greasy show Of lust and lies and cruelty, dried grime Streaked from the finger of the beggar, Time.

I wonder if the little letters there, Black-stamped and damned eternally to bear The records of old sin, must never long For that fair printed world of ancient song, Where, line on martial line, they stretch across The vellum's edge to some irradiant boss Of scarlet lettering, where sits a quaint Gilt-featured and attenuated saint,