ON INFIDELITY

A WAKE , my soul, and with seraphic zeal,
Upon the wings of pious rage upborne,
Arm to defend, and vindicate that truth,
On which our all, or all that's needful stands;
And as on angel's pinion fancy flies
Thro' truth's bright empire, let her genial song
From Heaven deduce the raptures of its lay,
To sing of mercy and of heav'n-born love.
And ye, O cherubims! that erst did chant
On Salem's mountains to the royal train
Of princely shepherds, by expectance led,
Expectance catholic, from climes remote
To meet and hail the Saviour of the world,
Do ye inspire the ardour of my song,
Direct my feeble essays and approve
The liberal purpose of my lowly theme;
O that it might but in some little serve,
Some little to the welfare of mankind.
Such is the humble wish of him who sings,
Who Heaven in heart-felt gratitude adores,
And man, by Heaven's command, like brother loves;
Then answer'd is my wish, my end obtain'd,
When Heaven is glorify'd, and man is serv'd.
Ye worse than infidels, self-prompted fools,
Blind to your greatest int'rest, madly blind,
That would refuse e'en friendship with your God,
And push aside the proffer'd hand of Heaven,
Which bends to you, with mercy most sublime,
Sublimer far than thy contracted mind,
Obscure and prejudic'd, can comprehend;
That, in compassion to thy helpless state,
Fhy inability to act alone,
Stoops down to snatch thee from the op'ning gulph
That widely yawns to swallow thee to ruin,
And plunge thee headlong in an endless woe.
No censure too severe can ever fall
Upon this strange perverseness of the mind;
Obstinacy unnatural and absurd,
Like maniac, violent against itself,
That can such obvious 'vantages disclaim.
Where lies the error? where the latent source,
From whence this strange contumacy proceeds?
Springs it from wilful infidelity,
By self volition urg'd, and self compell'd,
That, spite of all conviction, would repulse,
Damn and discredit each hypothesis,
Because 'tis merely vulgar to believe
The creed, opinion vulgar would confirm;
Or that, which running counter to their wishes,
Stands a strong contrast to their wayward hearts,
Is not delectable to be believ'd.
A man is not that strange automaton,
That self-mov'd engine, independent thing,
That thus can force himself to what he will;
Nor uncoercively will what he would.
The human mind acts by such various ways,
By such mysterious principles is mov'd;
Such wond'rous faculties united serve
To constitute and form the human soul,
That what it is, or how thus strangely made,
We know not: still a stranger to himself,
Man acts and thinks by ways so wonderful,
So unacquainted with his greater part,
That what he is, from whence, or why, he knows not;
Reflection shews to memory the past,
Perception o'er the present object stands,
And strong volition to the future tends;
These understanding, mem'ry, and the will,
The tripartite constituents of the soul,
These human trinity make up in man,
That wond'rous thing himself, himself least knows;
Such are the strange communicating powers
That link the grosser to the subtler parts,
As never yet the philosophic sage,
Howe'er so deeply vers'd in logic lore,
Could with precision hint at, nor conceive.
Yet such the concord, such the union here,
That sage and sophist, equally amaz'd,
Are lost in wonder! wondering at themselves! —
Hence, from this ignorance of what we are,
This inability to act alone,
To will at pleasure, and to think with ease,
Which ev'ry hour's experience plainly shews
We cannot do, should lead us to conclude,
That some omnipotent directing hand,
With mightiest influence acting, tho' unseen,
In viewless contact with the docile soul,
Impels, controuls, and guides her every motion;
When o'er the mind the swift idea shoots,
Or base or virtuous, generous or adverse,
Painful or pleasant, horrible or blest,
Rests it within the limited controul
Of human wills to counteract that hand,
That power incomprehensible, whose touch
Ferments the soul, like agitating winds
Upon the ruffled bosom of the deep,
And sets the unassisting passive mind,
Like neutral engine, on to contemplate,
Propose, resolve, and unresolve those things,
Perchance so terrible but in conceit,
That frighted with the monsters thus imprest
Upon the pliant, unconsenting mind,
That even reason startles at the view,
And hesitating conscience stands in doubt,
T' accede or to reject the impulse strange.
But where, digressive wand'rer! dost thou roar
Thus from thy purpose, from thy first design?
Was it to launch into the mazy sea
Of wild Conjecture, and on Fancy's wing
T' explore the various labyrinths that lead
Into the boundless deep, the vast profound
Of disputation, where the wilder'd soul,
Tost on Utopian surges, oft is wreck'd
Upon the shoals of ambiguity,
Where wild conjectures, systems endless rise,
Fleet and evanescent as transient dreams,
That oft explode ere they are half explain'd,
And leave the anxious mind fatigued and vex'd,
Bewilder'd in the dark uncertain maze
Of fathomless inquiry and research,
Lost to reality, to reason lost:
No! not for this my labouring bosom toils,
Not to investigate those hidden secrets,
Which man ne'er could nor ever shall define;
But to inquire at Truth's bright oracle,
To ask of Reason, prophetess divine!
Where doth originate this baneful spring,
This stream infernal, whose envonom'd draughts,
Poison belief, and choke the hopes of man:
'Twas thus some demon, whispering to mankind,
With foul suggestions, studious to despoil
Man's sweet tranquillity and halcyon peace,
Exclaim'd in all the arrogance and pride
Of hell-born malice, by resentment urg'd,
Of perfect knowledge, mortal, dost thou boast;
Implicitly believe, and gulph down all
The numerous chimeras and the mad conceits,
Th' infinite impostures, and the cheats,
That fetter down the reason of the world,
Trump'd up by politic designing knaves,
To lead your reason blindfold, and direct,
By their pretended shew of sanctity,
The only path to happiness and heaven.
Thus villains dictate, and thus fools obey! —
Clad in religious garb, it matters not
How strange soe'er the doctrines or the creed;
Experience proves, enthusiastic rage
How universal, how contagious too!
Are not a thousand impositions form'd,
Ten thousand sordid cheats, that mock mankind;
The Pagan, Christian, Mussulman, and Jew,
Have each for their impostures their pretence,
And martyrdoms and miracles in each
Are handed forth as uncontested proofs
Of the mad system which each fool pursues;
But ask of reason — reason will resolve,
Resolve to those who ask, or right or wrong:
By cool and sober reason's powerful aid,
Thou can'st determine all thou need'st to know.
If thou art wrong, 'tis dangerous to pursue
The path of error, when reflection calls,
And says, Return! If right, 'tis well — proceed;
Be circumspect, inquisitive, and nice
In each pursuit, where error may be try'd,
Nor suffer tamely those delusive frauds,
That bind reflection down in triple chains
Of superstition, prejudice, and folly,
Lest the expatiating mind should rise
To view and scrutinize illustrious fraud.
They deem it devilish heresy to think
With greater latitude than they prescribe,
And hold anathema those honest few,
Who dare explore, with sacriligious eye,
Those doubtful documents which they propound.
So argu'd hell, and, in concordant phrase,
Argu'd hell's missionaries to the world.
Man, by refinement rais'd from what he was,
His mind, still blest with innocence and joy,
Enjoy'd repose, nor soar'd above itself,
Nor aim'd at ought superior to that sphere
In which omniscient Heaven had fix'd his lot:
Now grown politely bold, refin'd in Pride,
Improv'd in Arrogance, whose wrongful name
The sons of vanity have Knowledge stil'd;
He dares to doubt the justice of high Heaven,
Calls into question the decrees of fate,
And with unmatch'd audacity contemus
The ways of Providence, laughs at the schemes,
And censures, blasphemous, those very ways
The God of Love, by ordinance divine,
Meant as the means, in mercy to mankind,
Of our salvation from eternal woe.
Thus, by his own ambitious reasonings led,
From pristine confidence his wandering mind
Is pluag'd into innumerable doubts;
Here, pendant in suspence, th' uncertain soul
Entangled in the wide ambiguous gloom,
Falls, step by step, into successive doubts,
To what do these inquiries lead the mind?
The reasoning sceptic proudly answers, Truth;
But how erroneous is the rash reply!
The long investigation and the search
Of disputation, do not always end
In Truth's illumin'd empire: no! we find
That oft, too oft, th' enquiring heart is led
From ignorance the question to resolve.
Let infidels exclaim with haughtiest cry
That they have found the goddess where she lay
Conceal'd from vulgar men; their cry is false:
What proof, what evidence have they adduc'd
To vindicate those arguments they use,
Or to confute those doctrines they condemn?
Still in uncertainty they seem to doubt
Their own assertions, nor can satisfy
Themselves with what they offer to the world
As incontestible. This plainly proves
That reason is not always in the right,
That man is not infallible as Heaven,
Else should we all, sans controversy, know
How to avoid each error, and pursue
One common path to certainty and truth:
But since, from common incidents, we find
That men more frequently go wrong than right,
And as experience, in each instance, shews,
In common things whate'er we do or know,
How small the portion of perfection is,
We aptly may conclude that each resolve,
Each system or opinion we can form,
Except when prompted by the heavenly voice
Of true apocalypse, may verge on doubt:
We hence determine that the sceptic's cause,
Reft of that 'vantage, in this gulph must fall;
'Tis doubt, uncertainty; 'tis deepest doubt;
The rock on which the infidel has split,
Driven from his moorings in that happy port,
Where truth's firm cable, and our anchor, hope,
Had bound his soul in peace and tranquil joy;
Whilst calm religion, kindly, at his helm,
Promis'd to steer him safely thro' the seas,
The storms and tempests of life's various voyage,
And land him gently on the shores of peace.
Is it for you, imperious sons of pride!
Offspring of error, folly's restive brood,
Is it for you, all-wise, all-perfect form'd,
Thus to dispute perfection of your God?
Are you, am I to judge of Heaven's designs,
To scan each purpose, order each decree,
And ridicule those doctrines that inform
The doubting soul her safest way to heaven;
Because our minds, contracted, cannot view,
Or fathom, or with satisfaction guess
What are the grand effects that bounteous Heaven
With eye intuitive, thro' endless time,
Means to produce from each effective cause.
Because his schemes we cannot comprehend,
Shall we dispute the wisdom of his ways?
Wisdom that, ever perfect, infinite,
Incapable of error and defect,
Still wisely operates, and for the best.
Those holy oracles, by hands divine,
Bestow'd on man, in mercy to his state,
That state of darkness, ignorance and guilt,
In which transgression and contempt of Heaven
Had plung'd him — those indubitable truths,
Which you call falsehood, and that host of saints,
By you denominated vilest cheats.
What are the precepts which they promulgate,
Or what the doctrines that they would enforce,
That you thus basely stigmatize with names,
That would abuse e'en legend most absurd?
Ill suits it with that finite creature, man,
With mind unequal to the simple task
Of knowing in the least degree himself,
Presumptuous thus Infinity to scan,
And circumscribe the attributes of G OD !
Why, infidel! suppose I grant thee all
Thou shalt advance, and tacitly concur
In every argument, what boots it me,
Or thee, or all mankind in general, this consent?
Where lies the advantage we shall hence derive?
The means of grace that scriptural page disclos'd,
Tho' in profoundest mystic vestment clad,
With seeming contradictions interwarp'd,
Seem'd only so to the unfaithful eye
Of sceptic prejudice; the heaven-led heart,
Secure in these assurances repos'd,
Nor ever entertain'd one single doubt.
Truth in each sentence shone, in every page
Concordance stood confess'd; throughout the whole
Consistency so manifest appear'd,
That to the sacred volume sanction gave,
And stamp'd it as veracity divine.
The humble peasant, who, with sinewy arm,
And reeking temples, till'd the stubborn glebe,
In ardent toil to earn his bitter bread,
Nor once repin'd at this his hardy lot,
Nor murmur'd at the stern decrees of fate,
That plac'd him in condition thus unkind,
When the proud tyrant, with usurping hands,
Seiz'd on the produce of his lab'ring hours,
Or fell oppression dragg'd him to the cell
Of solitary dungeon, there to taste
The yet still bitter pangs of want and woe.
Nay, tho' the rage of fortune and the world
Unitedly conspire to gall his life,
And render being his severest curse,
Still from adversity's profoundest depths,
Thro' each vicissitude of varying woe,
In confidence he tugg'd his loathsome life.
Supported and upborne on firmest hope,
Superior to all sublunary cares,
He view'd a certainty of future joys,
That promis'd to reward his every pang,
With circling ages of extatic bliss.
My state is such that doth exclude
The various raptures that on others wait;
Stern indigence severe, with chilling hand,
Chokes and expunges every spark of joy;
This, with other woes united, renders ev'ry day,
Each hour, each moment of my tedious life
Completely comfortless: what then remain'd,
When quite neglected by the hand of pride,
Spurn'd by the insolent, the rabble's scorn?
What then is left to hope? still, still my heart,
My happy soul, unconquer'd by distress,
Look onward, with new confidence inspir'd,
Beheld from Heav'n the compensating hand,
That held for all my sufferings and my wrongs
A kind reward. Say then, ungenerous train,
Would you, by means uncommonly severe,
Attempt to circumvent my last resort,
And with your hell-like friendships curse me quite?
Yes, thus you mark your philanthropic zeal,
Thus vindicate your charitable plans
Of reformation in the moral world:
But how mistaken are the devious schemes,
The proud suggestions that your doctrines boast?
You say they breed morality and truth,
Inspire devotion and exalt the soul
To more sublime conceptions of her God,
By dissipating far the flimsy shroud
Of useless ceremony and parade.
All this I grant — he who thinks more sublime,
With greater veneration or esteem,
Of the Omnipotent, all nature's God,
Than I, exists not: yes! his wond'rous hand
Appears self-evident in all his works;
But say, shall we disclaim those fulgent truths,
Those evangelic oracles that spring
From sacred revelation's brighter base,
But merely to adopt the simpler code
Of human ethics for our rule of faith?
What tho' for moral rectitude you fight,
Tho' to the mind those wond'rous powers ascribe
Of innate reason, or in that native sense,
Inherent in the soul, whose rightful voice
Can universal rectitude inform.
Suppose it so, what mighty difference stands?
What inconsistency to disunite
The gospel precept from the moral page?
Faith, mercy, hospitality, and love,
Piety, justice, clemency, and truth,
Parental reverence, honestly to all,
The one commands; does t'other these forbid?
No, hand in hand in moral truths agreed,
Have walk'd, in various periods, different climes,
A Zoroaster and a Plato sage,
A Trismagystes, wise Confucius good,
Nor they a Jesus in one point oppos'd,
Their moral doctrines or their truths condemn'd;
But say, tho' man, as perfectly complete
In all those moral documents and rules
As man is capable of being made,
Tho' he with strictest rigour shall attend
To all those obligations and those ties,
That man to man as equal claimant owes;
Does this invalidate religion's claim,
And set as nought our duties to high Heav'n?
As debtor to his God, poor needy man
Stands an insolvent: few, ah! very few
Are those advances he can ever make
To liquidate, much less discharge the debt,
With our most ardent strenuous efforts join'd,
To do those things we have most right to do;
Unprofitable servants are we all,
Our pray'rs are not amongst the claims of Heav'n,
As these result but from our own desires,
Yet it is no unsacred thing to pray;
It vouches our dependence on that hand,
Without whose aid, man little could obtain.
Then rise, my soul, with sacred zeal inspir'd,
In humblest gratitude that grace implore,
That to the wilder'd soul can give repose,
And to the mind, invelop'd in the gloom
Of anxious doubt, can give the cheering light
Of his blest spirit and of heav'n-born peace:
And since our praise of consequence we owe
To him, whose power produc'd us, and supplies
Our various wants, nay more, our comforts too.
Praise him, my heart, in grateful anthems praise
His ever great, his good, his hallow'd name;
And you, your voices join, deluded throng,
You, that by fair-couch'd arguments misled,
Have widely wander'd from your pristine faith,
Return, with penitence to him return,
Who, with a father's fondness can forgive
Your numerous errors and unnumber'd crimes;
Invoke religion, she, whose soothing voice
Speaks not in thunders, nor tempestuous rage,
But, with a genial hand, supplies the balm
Of halcyon comfort to the troubled heart;
From her, and her alone, this truth obtain,
That human happiness in human wit
Exists not, nor in all the base parade
Of studied reasonings, and the subtle shafts
Of logic doubtful, duplicate, and dull:
These arguments, thro' all their pompous glare,
This one poor melancholy fact contain,
Whene'er you tempt this interdicted field,
Much may be lost, but nothing can be won.