EPISTLE THE SECOND. (Nor to the fount of Hippocrene)

Nor to the fount of Hippocrene, Nor groves of laurel ever green, Nor where the wanton graces stray, With flow'rs is strown the muse's way. Lorenzo, no, I more rejoice At reason's bold, and manly, voice Than at the softest, sprightliest air Mirth ever sung to lighten care: Truth's sober tale more pleas'd to hear Than all that tickle fancy's ear; Tho' such, to babbling echo sweet, Aloud the publick voice repeat. Our numbers, then, let truth excuse, If rudely sing th' unpolish'd muse; Careless of ornament, and proud To differ from the sing-song crowd, So boastful of their poor pretence To swell with sound their starveling sense. Truth hopes not for poetick praise: To fiction sacred are the bays.

Dost thou, Lorenzo, still demur: So fearful in thy search to err, If plac'd thy faith on points alone Whose truth demonstratively known; These much too few, and too confin'd, To serve the purpose of mankind. Let a trite moral here advise. "Be not more credulous than wise." Whatever doubts thy course impede, Seek not to amplify thy creed, By myst'ries dark or dogmas old, Because to son from father told; Severely to known truth confin'd, Of little faith were all mankind. Thy present, arduous task, my friend, No vague determinations end. Of practice speculation wide, Demands for thee a surer guide, If in the former prone to stray, The justling world oppose our way: While, in the last, are thousands flown Past the world's knowledge or their own. "But hath this scientifick choice "The suffrage of the general voice: "The means consistent with the end; "That truth which you, yourself, commend?

Lorenzo, see to common-sense How just, how gen'ral the pretence. To nation, climate, age or sect, Unlimited without respect: Whence, howsoever wide we stray, When church, or system, lead the way, All, of necessity, agree In what, alike, they hear and see. For not a son of Adam's race Innate conviction can efface The highland loon, the lowland lout, Wild Irish fierce, and Cambrian stout, The boor that Rhynland's polder drains, Tho' reason slumber in his brains, All, all, like premises in view, The like conclusions ever drew.

For know that like our mother earth Its human offspring, at its birth. Where fertile clay and barren sand Compose the variegated land, Th' unequal strata of the soil Unequally demand our toil: The rich that toil with gain repay; Thrown on the poor our pains away. In man's uncultivated mind So varied is the soil, in kind. The flow'rs of science, fresh and fair, On some expand, without our care; On others scarce, by culture, grow The buds, that wither as they blow. Yet here essentially allied, However else diversified. The fertile marl, the steril sand Alike the seed or plant, demand: Denied no more spontaneous grain To Bergen's rocks than Baioe's plain So, not a truth innate our own, The seeds of knowledge must be sown. Experience slow must swell the root, And tend the fibres as they shoot; Or speedier aid instruction grant, And slips of foreign growth implant.

The mental and material claim Here too essentially the same: Grow seed or plant where'er it will In kind 'tis propagated still. No soil nor climate can produce In tares the barley's potent juice: To thorns no culture can assign The purple honours of the vine. Thus when, by simple nature's aid, Put forth sensation's tender blade; If, to perfection nearer brought, It bloom and ripen into thought, Wherever situate the root; The same its intellectual fruit. Its taste, its form, perhaps, we blame, But still its genus is the same: In this no poverty of soil, No dullness ever mock'd our toil.

If vainly, then, in letter'd pride, The scholar deep is dignified; So false, so empty the pretence Of wits to more than common-sense; If plain to th' idiot as to you Th' immediate object of his view; While ev'n the blockhead truly knows Far as his little science goes; Consistent, sure our confidence, In search of truth, on common-sense: That gen'ral index to mankind, To taste and genius unconfin'd; Pointing in all one common way; By dullness shorten'd but its ray; Of wit and knowledge all the end In length that radius to extend: In stubborn age, or pliant youth, Its bearing in the line of truth; A needle constant to the pole, Whence beams true faith upon the soul.

Dost thou object "if common-sense "So plausible an evidence, "And all mankind of this possess'd, "That any differ from the rest." Know thou when honest minds dissent, Misunderstood their argument: Diff'rent the premises appear, Else were the fix'd deduction clear. Hence half our num'rous quarrels rise. We see not with each others eyes: So that precisely all alike Nor terms, nor things conception strike. For ev'ry individual draws His plan by mere perspective laws; Fix'd to one station, time and place, In pow'r no full survey to trace; The false mistaking oft for true, Observ'd at diff'rent points of view. So, when to cheat the partial sight, And prove in mirth that black is white, With lights dispos'd the shades between, In folds is spread the artful scene; Oppos'd, the colours strike the eye, And he affirms what you deny. Here spotless all appears and fair; Perceiv'd a total blackness there. The demonstration of his sight Who doubts? who knows not black from white? Thus evidence supports dispute; Nor one the other can refute. And yet is common-sense to blame? The premises were not the same. Were these alike, tho' say you err, Both would infallibly concur: For take each others point of sight, And set, at once, the matter right.

Conceive not, then, because we find One source of truth in ev'ry mind, We individuals think to see, At ev'ry time and place, agree. As well, amidst yon grove of trees While plays a constant eastern breeze, Each single spray we hope to find In one direction, west, reclin'd. For, tho' to truth alike our claim, Our taste nor sentiments the same.

For dusky green the jaundic'd eye Mistakes the clear-blue summer sky; The distant scene, however bright, Is darkness to the short of sight; To loaded ears as whispers still The clack and thunder of the mill. Thus lost, as colours on the blind, On dullness qualities refin'd; Than musick to the deaf no more, To ignorance th' abstracted lore. Hence oft objection calls us out, To satisfy the blockhead's doubt; Who not one proof, whereon depends His sought solution, comprehends: The tritest arguments, of yore, In vain repeated o'er and o'er, Proving how fruitless were the toil, The jarring world to reconcile. And yet, as but from time and place Our sev'ral modes of thought we trace, Alas! how blindly do we run Each others heresy to shun; Our own our glory and our pride, While curses all the rest betide: By pious children doom'd their sire, By sires, their children to hell-fire: Heirs to salvation's brighter sphere So strangely damn'd, and damning here! Thus Calvin ignorantly raves At souls which, therefore,Luther saves; To both denied Lord Peter's keys; Who shuts out hereticks like these. And yet ev'n those, who boast to feel Their bosoms burn with christian zeal; Who dooming mussulmen to hell, With pride uncharitable swell; In Naz'reth bred, or Bethle'm born, Had laugh'd our Saviour's birth to scorn; Mere Turks, denounc'd for you and me, The bitter fruit of Zacon's tree To eat with fiends below: the doom Of Anti-Mahomet and Rome! Yet, blind as Sampson, when despair Had sunk his life below his care, The numbers wanton Gaza lost Destroy'd but at his proper cost, Half-witted Zeal, of all the test, Itself condemns among the rest; For, if requir'd by gracious Heaven Our service but as knowledge given, Should I in Pope or Mufti, trust; For proving to their tenets just, Your rule to censure me, or mine, Holds the like condemnation thine. Yet still more wicked, weak and blind This reprobating, zeal we find; When, void of truth, absurd and vain The tenets zealots thus maintain. Oh! how ridiculous and odd That zeal precipitate for God, So short of knowledge, that, indeed, It understands not ev'n its creed.

For know, whate'er the world pretend, But few believe what they defend. In modes of faith, tho' falsehood taught, Nonsense is equally their fault: Thousands by forms of speech deceiv'd Ne'er yet by mortal man believ'd; Creeds penn'd, as said, at Heaven's command, In terms no soul can understand; Or such, tho' thunder'd from on high, That plainly give themselves the lie. But sure, if words no sense convey, Faith in their utt'rance dies away; Nor can a single son of Eve Apparent falsehood e'er believe. Belief no vague declaimer's rant, No bigot's creed, no sophist's cant; 'Tis not the scripture text to quote; To get our catechism by rote; O'er homilies to spend the day; At midnight, half asleep, to pray; To chatter matins at the dawn, Or gabble with the man of lawn: True faith that consciousness of soul, That times nor accidents control; Save those adapted and combin'd To root conviction from the mind. For know that neither threats nor blows Sincere belief can e'er impose. The monk's hot zeal, the jesuit's skill Lead not conviction as they will. Go, turn inquisitor and burn The hereticks, all round, in turn; The Turk, refusing to resign His sensual paradise for thine; The Indian, that in death pretends To visit but his former friends; Unless his faith what you may tell, Of joys in Heav'n and pains in Hell. Not one of all the suffering tribe Thy sentiments per-force imbibe. Howe'er induc'd by hope or fear, The mind is no free agent here: To change their faith beyond the power Of martyrs at their dying hour. How idly, then, enthusiasts rave Of systems, that will damn or save; Or think true proselytes to gain By torture, gallows, whip or chain: Since, ever constant to its cause, True faith depends on nature's laws; By nonsense nor caprice misled, The honest heart and sober head. How idly wild fanaticks preach, While ignorant of what they teach. The spirit ne'er affects the mind, Unless with th' understanding join'd; Nor hath the word, if void of sense, To gospel pow'r the least pretence. Some certain meaning, hence, and plain A saving faith must needs contain: If fix'd its object, sure, no less The sense of terms our creed express: A parrot, else, if none deceive her, A sound and orthodox believer; Convinc'd as much as ever yet The Athanasian paroquet. Let not fanaticism deceive. None can a mystery believe. Tho' plung'd by zeal in errour deep, While common-sense lies fast asleep, Their faith rash bigots strangely boast; The strongest his who's cheated most; Who least for truth presumes to search; But headlong runs into the church. For, laid thy hand upon thy heart, The formule of thy creed impart; Dost thou its substance comprehend? Lo! all its mystery's at an end. In spite of their misguiding zeal, Here to their hearts let all appeal: Enough if just be their pretence To honesty and common-sense: Here rests that umpire of mankind, Conscience, the God within the mind.

At eastern temples as, of yore, Without the threshold of the door, In reverence, did the zealot use To doff, and leave, his dirty shoes: Like him, the modern faithful, taught That reason is a thing of naught, Lest they should soil the church with doubt, Their understandings leave without. For ask who thus in mystery trust, If Euclid's demonstration's just; If truth the geometrick art, Or subtile algebra, impart. Unknowing what precisely meant, They honestly resuse assent; Consess they first must comprehend, Before they credit or contend. O self condemn'd! O dead to shame! Have these a conscience void of blame; Who take no worldly points on trust, But scruple till they know them just; Yet their supreme concerns will rest On tenets half the world contest; Conviction openly defie, And with their tongues their hearts belie! These the true faithful shall we call? These have, alas, no faith at all. For, howsoe'er with art they strive To keep absurdity alive, Cloath'd in equivocal disguise, Or garb of truth, their specious lies, Still common-sense, unrooted out, Will find a flaw to fix a doubt: And where one doubt is left behind No firm belief informs the mind.

Yet is there whose officious zeal Pretends a consciousness to feel, A fix'd internal evidence Of axioms, hid from common-sense; A stronger testimony given, By inspiration breath'd from Heaven? Lorenzo, neither you, nor I, What God reveals can e'er deny. But here how needful to be wise To know where revelation lies. Art thou thyself inspir'd by Heav'n? Tell me what certain proof is given. Dost thou intuitively view What reason tells thee must be true? No revelation here requir'd; How proves such truth that thou'rt inspir'd? For why inspir'd, if but to tell What reason might have told as well. As truth beholds thy mental eye What seems to all the world a lie; Thy proof imagination strong? Here also mayst thou still be wrong. From Heav'n if ever fir'd conceit, Brandy has also done the feat. Nay oft th' infatuate of brain, Of Heav'n's presum'd injunctions vain, Have madly broke its dread commands. And dipt in blood their murd'ring hands. If God or devil then inspire, Of reason still we must inquire: And reason doubtless would reply, "Heav'n never yet reveal'd a lie." On others gifts confiding more, Dost give thine own pretensions o'er? Dost from th' inspir'd thy faith receive, And pin it on thy neighbour's sleeve? Reason or Heav'n must tell thee too, If such be more inspir'd than you. "Where then the proof?" I frankly own, To me, yet uninspir'd, unknown: Such guides, to me, by madness fir'd, As madmen, with the Turks, inspir'd.

In spite of Middleton and Hume, Dost thou on miracles presume? To revelation these thy guide; Thy faith by wonders verified. Go thou, and, easy of belief, My comrade ask if I'm a thief. If inspiration false and true, Sure miracles suspicious too: And, hence, thy conduct most absurd, To take for one the other's word. Our souls how long to damn and save, Hath subtile priestcraft play'd the knave! Its pupils train'd, from early youth, T'equivocate and hide the truth; To practise the deception nice, Of tricking hand, or quaint device; To cheat the palate, nose and eye; And gild that dirty pill, a lie. Yet dost thou miracles maintain? Be here thy definition plain: The muse disdaining to reply To such as shock the naked eye. Events as miracles dost own, Whose cause immediate is unknown; Or is thy faith establish'd more On actions ne'er perform'd before? Alas, my much believing friend, The times of yore might these defend; When heretick free-thinkers rose, That dar'd the holy church oppose; For infidelity renown'd, Asserting that the globe was round; Vile heresy! whence, doom'd to hell, Upsal's good bishop martyr fell: Wretches, so impious as to hold, The earth about its axis roll'd, And, as the years their courses run, Still took its journeys round the sun; Vile heresy! for which, 'tis said, Old Galileo too had bled, Had not the sage, more loth to die, Recanting, damn'd it for a lie. In days of ignorance like these, When legends had the pow'r to please; While love of wonder salv'd deceit, And gudgeons swallow'd whole the cheat; How little strange that monks and fryars Should prove miraculously liars; Or converts to divines so sad Turn out miraculously mad! But now, a century worn away, Time working wonders ev'ry day, The vast discov'ries years have made Have spoilt the wonder-monger's trade.

Sayst thou, events so strange of yore Since now miraculous no more, True miracles thou wouldst define As real acts of power divine, Th' effects of some immediate cause, In fact transgressing nature's laws. How!—did th' omnipotent, on high, Let those, his laws, at random fly: Or was his providence so blind To what omnisciency design'd, That still his sov'reign will attends To strike his foes or skreen his friends; That pow'r beyond th' Almighty's art To nature's system to impart: Needful Heav'n's arbitrary fire To blast a fig-tree or a liar? Lorenzo, be not thou so vain, To think thus brittle nature's chain; From which whatever link we strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, broke alike, Connecting systems all destroy'd, Unballanc'd worlds would strow the void, To atoms burst; restor'd again Old Chaos to his ancient reign: Unless, in time, the God attend The works of his own hand to mend. Alas, how blasphemous to say That Heav'n can save no other way; Or that, for trifles or in joke, Creation's sacred order's broke. For do we not, in fact, confess, If God may nature's laws transgress, The wise creator wanted skill His vast intentions to fulfil, Or that th' intention, tho' his own, Was in th' extent to him unknown: Or, still more impiously, imply That Heav'n can give itself the lie. Say, then, that miracles there be; They're but miraculous to thee: So many links conceal'd remain, Which form the complicated chain, True causes and effects between, In Nature's providential scene. What tho' without an obvious cause We see inverted custom's laws, Must we immediately infer That nature from itself can err? Commanded by the word divine, Say water chang'd itself to wine; Graves open'd wide their pond'rous jaws; A breath the sole apparent cause. Ah, who shall boast, that God revere, Creation's laws were broken here? Might not ten thousand springs unite, Causes too fine for mortal sight, Such varied wonders to produce; To providential ends of use: Form'd when by Heav'n, its pow'r display'd, The earth's foundation first was laid: Or when that Logos was design'd By miracles to save mankind.

Think not, Lorenzo, nature strays Whene'er the world is in amaze. Extend thy view from pole to pole: See one great miracle the whole; Where all events their cause succeed, As once the great, first cause decreed; Where order still from order flows, And never interruption knows; Capricious but to mortal sense The harmony of providence. How strangely, therefore, bigots err Who wonders to plain facts prefer; With list'ning ear, who love to range, And greedy eye, for all that's strange; Rejecting their creator's plan, The voice of God for that of man. Besides, thy miracles confin'd To former ages of mankind, Nature in these our latter days Unmov'd by pray'r, and deaf to praise, Ne'er turning back, nor led aside, To help our wants, or sooth our pride; But keeping, pack-horse like, its track, Bearing the world upon its back: Say such to revelation guide; For these on hear-say we confide: In want of proof, on trust must take For honest jew or gentile's sake; Since, howsoe'er the truth conceal'd, None trust in miracles reveal'd; Unless learn'd Jortin's scheme may pass Of dreaming Balaam's talking ass. Dost thou, secure, historians trust? How know we if their tale be just. From num'rous causes prone to err, Dubious, alas, what these aver. What from deception e'er can save The man whose trust is in a knave; To falsehood he how oft a tool Whose confidence is in a fool: And should, themselves, the honest speak; The honest may be blind or weak; Be led a visionary dance, Like Peter, in prophetick trance, Or good St. Paul, that seldom knew If what he said was false or true; Forgetful, if his word we take, When fast asleep or wide awake. My friend, no wonder, then, at all, Adventures strange should such befall; Or that, by wild opinions, they From truth are blindly led astray; Who, like old wives in winter nights, Hear, see, and feel, and chat with sprights. Their prudent caution, therefore, just Who waking dreamers seldom trust; To whom light visions fact may seem, And fact itself an idle dream.

In reverence, yet, we all must own The pow'r and will of God unknown; Confin'd not to the narrow bound Of reason's most extensive round; Active a thousand ways beside; Beyond unknown how far and wide. From grey experience, hence, conceal'd The gifts of grace to babes reveal'd; From Science hid that sacred fire Heav'n's chosen servants doth inspire; Who, highly favour'd from above, Behold descend th' all-quickening dove, Or cloven tongue; the spiritual boast Of brethren in the Holy Ghost. Lorenzo, then let you, nor I, Unless we can disprove, deny. And yet, in search of truths unknown, Experience be thy guide alone; Nay held perception in suspense Till reason may confirm the sense: To Science only unconfin'd When God, himself, informs the mind.