Awful the mysteries of Reason are,
When all its powers, with high Religion crowned,
Harmoniously, like solemn music, sound.
Its loss more awful, more mysterious far:
Then, in the glorious concert, grates the jar
Of horrid discords. Fiends beleaguer round
The citadels of thought and will. Then drowned,
In billows of black cloud, is Faith's bright star;
Weird phantoms throng round in the dire eclipse;
Unreal deaths, fires, terrors haunt the air;
Prayer bounds back blighted; e'en G OD'S Word divine
Lies, when re-echoed from the Devil's lips!
Fool! boastest thou thy reason? Is it thine?
Go to the mad-house cells; learn wisdom there!