Classic Poem

Great Spirit, understanding's king,
Reason and truth must join to bring
Worship, which may presume to meet
Acceptance at thy holy seat.

The lifted hand, the bending knee,
Is but vain homage, Lord, to thee:
In vain our lips the hymn prolong,
The heart a stranger to the song.

Can rites, and forms, and flaming zeal
The breaches of thy mandates heal?
Or fast and penance reconcile
Thy justice, and obtain thy smile?

A soul devout, a conscience clean,
And goodness in each social scene,
To thee a nobler off'ring yield,
Than Sheba's groves or Sharon's field;

Than floods of oil, and floods of wine,
Ten thousand rolling to thy shrine:
Or than, if to thy altar led,
A first-born son, the victim, bled.

Kneel, kneel, ye tribes of human frame,
Kneel; and adore the Maker's name.
Let every clime the sun goes round,
In every tongue his glory sound.

The bestial clans, which round you graze,
With dumb devotion act his praise;
Who gave you pow'rs to them unknown?
Speech is your wondrous boast alone.

In you there lives, what ne'er shall die,
A free-born, thinking energy;
Fashion'd and furnish'd to fulfill
Reason's high law, your Father's will.

How long revolting, will ye rove
From hill to hill, from grove to grove?
And, mad with superstition, fear
Gods which can neither see nor hear.

O come, and seek your father's face,
His anger fear, his love embrace;
Who in the world beyond the grave,
Has pow'r to kill and pow'r to save.