Classic Poem

I pity all whose superstitions need
Perpetual prayer vague terrors to allay;
Poor trembling bigots who, till they turn gray,
Place fervent trust in some unworthy creed.

Dreading a phantom hell, they meekly plead,
The crafty priest religiously obey,
And think by genuflections night and day,
That God will for their frailties intercede!

Fools! when the world is but an atom rolled
Amid the starry vastness of dim space,
This vain and miserable human chaff,
With confidence derisive to behold,
Dreams that to Heaven ascend its cries for grace,
And can not hear God's cold, contemptuous laugh.