Classic Poem

Unfeeling sceptics, would ye wrest
Their sole resource from the distrest,
And life of all the hopes deprive,
For which alone we bear to live!
Religion, source of purest joy,
That nothing earthly can destroy,
For ev'ry ill that men endure
To thee alone belongs the cure:
Thou to the helpless poor art — wealth,
To the diseas'd, expiring — health;
Thou to the wearied soul art rest,
And comfort to the grief-opprest,
A guardian in each danger near,
A present friend distress to chear.
When strong temptations thick assail,
Our feeble virtue soon would fail,
But aided by thy heav'nly pow'r,
It stands in ev'ry evil hour,
And from thy height secure looks down
Alike on fortune's smile and frown.
Without thee, what can mortals boast?
Depriv'd of thee, our all is lost;
For honour is — the fear of shame,
And virtue but an empty name.
When man transgress'd his Maker's law,
His wand'ring God with pity saw,
And though to human sin a foe,
Compassionate to human woe,
Religion as a guide and friend,
He bade from heav'n to earth descend,
To teach us for our sins to grieve,
Our present suff'rings to relieve,
And through life's dark and rugged road
Conduct our erring steps to God.
Religion, crown my ev'ry stage,
My guide in youth, support in age,
Still constant on my paths attend,
Adorn my life and bless my end.