Classic Poem

As some pale lamp in cold congealing night,
Casts in the dismal mine a gloomy light,
And some poor captive, there an infant led,
Denies the glorious sun above his head.
Such is the man (but far more righteous blame
Attends his folly) who denies the claim
Of life immortal, and that glorious truth
Which shines resplendent to direct his youth.
Who on a feeble lamp can fix those eyes,
Whose animated glance shou'd read the skies?

O false philosophy!—this awful hour
When rebel to religion's nobler power
Most false thou art!—more fatal, more abhorr'd,
Than poison, famine, poverty, or sword!
Clip not the wings of genius as they soar,
Tho' this indeed may deck thy triumphs more,
Short shall they be—most surely crush'd shall all
Thy fairy domes, thy richest fabric's fall.
If prey thou hast, let dulness be thy prey,
And form new mazes where its fools may stray.
But oh let genius with an eagle wing
To meet the radiant sun with ardour spring!
Spoilt by thy chain, in vain its plumes are bright
If fix'd in error's cage it dwells in night.