To Torrismond

My soul is sicken'd when I see the youth, that sports and trifles with eternal truth.

When ancient Britain pip'd the rustic lays, And tun'd to woden notes of vocal praise, The dismal dirges caught the listening throng, And ruder gestures join'd the antique song.

Then the grey druid's grave, majestic air, The frantic priestess, with dishevell'd hair And flaming torch, spoke superstition's reign; While elfin damsels dancing o'er the plain, Allur'd the vulgar by the mystic scene, To keep long vigils on the sacred green.

Then Gothic bards might dress the magic tale, And monkish legends over truth prevail; As weak credulity, with hood wink'd eyes, Had never peep'd behind the thin disguise--- The party colour'd veil, at once inwove With ignorance, and some faint fears of Jove; Wrought up to madness by the crafty priest, While artful politicians saw the jest, And laugh'd at virtue as a state machine, An engine fit the multitude to rein; With more facility to rule mankind, They lent their efforts to obscure the mind. Folly and fraud the manly powers debas'd, And from the soul th' etherial spark eras'd; Plung'd in the depth of black and dreary night, No eye could trace one avenue to light.

But from the dark impenetrable shade, Reason appear'd, a bright, a heav'n born maid; The moral system, nature's early code, Improv'd by reason, and the voice of God, Dispell'd the mists of error's tenfold maze, And truth triumphant, held a crown of bays.

Celestial reason, thus again restor'd, Her gentle wand through all the world ador'd, She reign'd resplendent o'er the human mind, With brow worn science, hand in hand combin'd, To prove the powers of the active soul, That mounts from earth to nature's farthest pole; 'Till Anglia boasts the birth of Locke and Boyle, And Newton's name adorn'd Britannia's isle; O'er the learn'd world, this heavenly genius shone, And light diffus'd as the meridian sun, Through the vast solar system late defin'd, By vast exertions of his godlike mind; And while investigating nature's laws, He still defended virtue's sacred cause: At once he taught philosophy to shine, Own'd and rever'd the oracles divine; That pens inspir'd had op'd a brighter day, That revelation lent its heavenly ray To lift, exalt, and elevate the soul, To scale the stars, and soar from pole to pole.

But as the clearest hemisphere displays The wandering star, amidst the radiant blaze, Of orb o'er orb, that aids the nightly dance, Of planets rolling through the broad expanse; Some visionary souls have lost their way, Eccentric wandering 'mid the noon tide ray.

Thus man, frail man, to wide extremes so prone, Truth's perfect path by him so little known, That when emerging from the dismal gloom, Of night and fable, wrap'd in chaos' womb; Some danc'd and play'd around the boundless shore, The depths of erudition just skim'd o'er; Nurs'd in refinements of a sceptic age, They spurn the precepts of the sacred page; Hold revelation but the dream of pride, The wish of man to be to God ally'd: Thus the vain reptile of a fleeting hour, Presumes he knows the plenitude of power.

Through nature's system, through her grand design, He strips the veil from Providence divine; Sees clearly through the vast mysterious plan, Can prove that Heaven forgot its creature, man:

That when to rationals God first gave birth, And chain'd them down to this low distant earth, To guide their path lent not one friendly beam, No intimation of his will supreme; But the weak reasoner's left to grope his way, To Jove, Jehovah, or to Bacchus pray, As he by chance, or caprice, may be led, Born in Italia, or in Athens bred.

Lost in wild passion---prattling much of fate, His highest hope a non existing state; Yet fears alarm, or secret dread of shame; His brutal wishes, pride, or love of fame, Alternate drag him with magnectic force, 'Till infidelity's his last resource; By turns exploding grace, free will, and fate, Still apprehensive of some future state, Suspense distracts his oscillating brain, 'Till---assures him death shall end his pain.

Ah! Torrismond! poor trembling, doubting youth, Pale with thy fears, and yet affronting truth; Come, my young friend, forsake the sceptic road, And tread the paths superiour genius trod; Leave all the modern metaphysic fools, To reason on by false logistic rules; Leave all the quibblers of a mimic age, By rote to cavil at th' inspired page; Let learned trash their arguments sustain, While common sense, ejected from their brain, They through each jarring incoherence run, Until entangled in the web they've spun, They all things doubt but their superiour sense, And live and die the dupes of dark suspense.

Come, spite of low born pleasures, nobly rise, And seek true happiness beyond the skies, Ere this short whirl of fancy'd joys are o'er, When time shall land thee on some unknown shore; Where truth array'd in silvern robes shall stand, With justice' sword uplifted in her hand.

When thy soul quivers on the awful marge, And death throws ope eternity's broad verge; When conscience whispers, thy probation's o'er, Or her soft voice may loud as thunder roar; With what amaze you'll find the christian scheme Is not the product of a brain sick dream.

Then not the wits who grace the lists of fame, Sanction'd by Hume, or by a Shaftsbury's name, Or celebrated Voltaire's pointed pen, Who cheats the weak, or charms ev'n wiser men; Nor all the train of infidels combin'd, Can sooth a moment thy immortal mind.