Classic Poem

Behold yon wretch with silent horror fill'd,
And sullen in extreme! His doubts are hell,
Whilst each discordant pow'r of his dark soul,
Performs its office but to yield him woe.

Vile ravager of Order! who shall hold
Thy line of false Morality? Who boast
Of Virtues which exist without a cause?

Perfection , be it trifling as the mote
Which revels in the Sun-beam, cannot own
Its essence self-originating. Vain
Are all thy pleas to social rules of Man!
Vain are thy toils in Science! Vain the web
Hoary Philosophy shall ever spin,
If, in thy future views, thou ne'er canst form
Some GOOD to hope for!