SUPERSTITION.
O Superstition, could the world beholdThy wrinkled visage,—worshipped as thou art,Not all the pomp of earth, nor all its goldCould purchase for thee one devoted heart;The sons of science, eloquently bold,Have felt the strokes of thy unsparing dart,And knaves despotic, kneeling at thy shrines,Have made thy slaves the tools of their designs.To science turn; she cultivates the roughAnd barren regions of the savage mind,Her lore is not the visionary stuffOf gloomy monks; blind leaders of the blind.Her ways are mild and beautiful enoughTo melt the rigour of a heart unkind,Her truths are diamonds, such as will endureThroughout all ages, palpable and sure.
O Superstition, could the world beholdThy wrinkled visage,—worshipped as thou art,Not all the pomp of earth, nor all its goldCould purchase for thee one devoted heart;The sons of science, eloquently bold,Have felt the strokes of thy unsparing dart,And knaves despotic, kneeling at thy shrines,Have made thy slaves the tools of their designs.To science turn; she cultivates the roughAnd barren regions of the savage mind,Her lore is not the visionary stuffOf gloomy monks; blind leaders of the blind.Her ways are mild and beautiful enoughTo melt the rigour of a heart unkind,Her truths are diamonds, such as will endureThroughout all ages, palpable and sure.
O Superstition, could the world beholdThy wrinkled visage,—worshipped as thou art,Not all the pomp of earth, nor all its goldCould purchase for thee one devoted heart;The sons of science, eloquently bold,Have felt the strokes of thy unsparing dart,And knaves despotic, kneeling at thy shrines,Have made thy slaves the tools of their designs.
To science turn; she cultivates the roughAnd barren regions of the savage mind,Her lore is not the visionary stuffOf gloomy monks; blind leaders of the blind.Her ways are mild and beautiful enoughTo melt the rigour of a heart unkind,Her truths are diamonds, such as will endureThroughout all ages, palpable and sure.