Classic Poem

How senseless is that shuffling Hypocrite,
Who proves his Faith, by his denying it!
For that there is a future Life is shewn,
Ev'n in the Pains he takes to prove there's None:
Thus his Profession his own Doubts confute,
Since what he did not doubt he'd ne'er dispute;
His pannick Fear, and never ceasing Doubt,
Make more his Faith, and less his Reason out:
Strict Atheists so from Want of Faith appear
More credulous than true Believers are;
Blind Bigots in their Infidelity,
That their own Fancy trust, yet Faith deny;
Excluding Miracles, they greater own;
That the World's form'd but by it self alone,
And Work without a Workman may be done;
That Motion is without a Mover wrought;
That Reason's no Result of Sense or Thought;
That Method is the blind Effect of Chance,
And Order is without an Ordinance.
Nay, they believe the World's Eternity,
And its Eternal Maker yet deny;
Against all Fear of future Life declare,
Yet suffer in their own fantastick Fear
Of things, their Senses ne'er cou'd feel or see,
Or Reason tell 'em that they e'er cou'd be;
Strongly they Immortality disclaim,
Yet shudder to lay down their Mortal Frame:
Tho', if they thought an End of Pain it were
To die, then Death they should to Life prefer:
For did they nought of future Life, believe,
They cou'd no Fears, from ending Life, conceive:
How credulous these Atheists must appear,
Who, to their own Opinions, will adhere,
And their Beliefs and Disputations strain,
Points, more than Faith requires them, to maintain!
While the best Proof of Sense is Doubtfulness,
And the best Reas'ning, the most modest Guess:
For Reason when most positive it grows,
And would its peremptory Flights impose;
Against it self does its own Forces raise,
And certain Weakness in its Pride betrays:
Striving Mankind, by private Thoughts, to lead
From strong Perswasion to its frantick Creed.
Whilst doating Atheists urge each fond Conceit,
And press their Wisdom as of wondrous Weight:
Sure they forget it is their own Pretence,
That no Man's Faith shou'd sway another's Sense:
Absurdly then, they think, to make that out
By Reason, which by Nature we must doubt;
For Want of Faith more positive to grow,
But in our Fancy, against what we know;
Believing Chance, that's still irregular,
Made Method by Confusion first appear;
That from it self the World its being had,
Tho' we see nothing by it self is made;
Or any Beings that we see, feel, know,
Can be their own Works, and Creators too;
Or cou'd (from diff'ring with themselves) agree,
The more united with themselves to be.

The Atheist therefore, who believes all this
For want of Faith, a greater Bigot is,
Than he who does the Sacred Writ espouse,
And ev'ry Christian Miracle allows;
Yet misses in his unbelieving State,
The Comforts that on true Believers wait.
Since he that does on Providence repose,
From that Dependance much the happier grows.
Men, in this Life, derive a happy State,
Or an unhappy, from their Faith, not Fate.
Faith, which ev'n here anticipates our Joy,
And proves an early Immortality:
By which we cause our present Bliss to last,
Enjoy the future, nor regret the past.
Faith gives us Hopes, by which we banish Fear;
And guides to Transports we but guess at here:
We by our Faith can give our selves Content,
Forestal good Fortune, and the bad prevent;
So to our selves, by this one Rule alone,
Are all-sufficient, and oblig'd to None.
Whilst Atheists, who dispute a future Life,
Make here that Joy, which cannot last, their Grief;
Whereas, by Faith, we earthly Joys improve,
As we secure a nobler Bliss above.

But yet the Disbelief that they profess
Is Faith, tho' impious, in a strange Excess.
No God, without a Proof to Sense, they'll own,
And yet believe, without a Proof, there's none;
For since there's little Sign on Earth, they say,
That Providence does any Pow'r display;
No vengeful Sentence on the Guilty pass,
Or screen the Virtuous with some signal Grace;
Therefore they sacrilegiously disown
The Being of a Pow'r that is not shown:
And from that trifling Argument declare
Against a God or providential Care.
Tho' they shou'd therefore think there shou'd be One,
By whom strict Justice somewhere must be done;
And since to Merits, or Demerits here,
They neither find him gracious, nor severe;
There must be, after Life, some future State,
Where Souls shall to their Merit find their Fate.
For the worst Men on Earth, 'tis often found
In Wealth, and Heav'ns best Blessings most abound,
Pamper'd, and unrestrain'd; which would not be,
If that th' All-wise, All-just, Divine Decree
Had not determin'd, Virtue shou'd elsewhere
Possess those Blessings which it tastes not here