Classic Poem

Even were Hell a fable, 'twere a wise one,
And yet it is as great a truth as Heaven;
Tho' neither be what Mahomet would make them;
Ay! and Mahometans of other Creeds;
Who, with their fancies ever full of Earth,
Worship the Crescent tho' they kiss the Cross!
How fine so-e'er these visionary scenes,
We must still shew them with their tapestry-backs
To the gross people with its hydra head,
The multitude hath scarce a Cyclop's eye!
See, with what awe, his simple mouth and ear,
Yon pale wretch drinks up the soul-shaking sounds
Of rack! and scourge! and flame! Dire eloquence!
And when the pitying orator allays
His burning lips in horrid tales of Heaven,
Bounteously poured into the caitiff's heart,
He melts in rapture as he heard the strain
That angels move to!