Classic Poem

Prophecy! no — 'tis luxury of soul!
No Cataracts , down religion's rivers, roll!
Her streams, tho' deep , are ever, smooth, and clear,
And, from their bottoms , all things plain appear:
On Superstition's sea , these vessels ride,
Foul, with the dashings of her muddy tide .
What marks? what tokens? can they boast, from heav'n?
Knowledge is, still, with inspiration , giv'n!
While these the dusky paths of ignorance tread,
And impudently prophecy, for bread!
With counterfeited shocks of soul, they swell,
And, in forc'd sweats , convulsive falsehoods tell.
To heights, like this, religion wou'd not fly;
Ev'n zeal grows madness , when 'tis skrew'd too high.

Now law , methinks, most wholesomely severe,
Might truth's fair garden, from this rubbish , clear,
Which, long despis'd, may strike too vig'rous root ,
And, into groves of godly error , shoot!
'Twere easy, now , to sweep loose weeds away,
Which may destroy the flow'rs , by short delay .

So, in the bottom of some goodly plain,
Flows a small rill , encreas'd, by casual rain;
Near which, with careful steps, and sounding hands,
Some cautious clown, with needless terror stands!
Loth to attempt a nimble passage o'er,
While, still, the swelling stream enoreases more:
'Till faint essays, protracting time, in vain,
The rising river drowns the cover'd plain ;
Then, slagg'ring, with affright , he gazes round,
And, forc'd to pass, at last, mistakes his ground:
'Till, deeply wading , to'ward the wide miss'd shore,
The current sweeps him, and he's seen no more.