REASON. A POEM.
REASON. A POEM.
Written by the Author of the Choice.
LONDON: Printed, and are to be sold by I. Nutt, near Stationers-Hall, MDCC.
REASON. A POEM.
UNHAPPY Man! Who thro' successive Years
From early Youth to Life's last Childhood Errs;
No sooner Born, but proves a Foe to Truth;
For Infant Reason is o'er power'd in Youth:
The Cheats of Sense will half our Learning share;
And Pre-Conceptions all our Knowledge are.
Reason, 'tis true, shou'd over Sense Preside,
Correct our Notions, and our Judgment Guide;
But false Opinions, rooted in the Mind,
Hoodwink the Soul, and keep our Reason Blind.
Reason's a Taper, which but faintly burns,
A languid Flame that glows and dyes by Turns;
We see't a while, and but a little Way,
We Travel by its Light as Men by Day.
[Page 4] But quickly Dying, it forsakes us soon,
Like Morning Stars, that never stay till Noon.
The Soul can scarce above the Body rise,
And all we see is with Corporeal Eyes;
Life now do's scarce one Glimpse of Light display.
We Mourn in Darkness, and despair of Day;
That Nat'ral Light, once dress'd with Orient Beams,
Is now diminisht, and a Twi-light seems,
A Miscellaneous Composition made
Of Night, and Day, of Sunshine, and of Shade.
Thro' an Uncertain Medium now we look,
And find That Falshood which for Truth we took.
So Rays Projected from the Eastern Skyes
Shew the false Day before the Sun can Rise.
That little Knowledge now which Man Obtains,
From outward Objects and from Sense he Gains;
He, like a wretched Slave, must Plod and Sweat,
By Day must Toil, by Night that Toil Repeat;
And yet at last what little Fruit he Gains?
A Beggar's Harvest Glean'd with mighty Pains.
The Passions still Predominant will Rule,
Ungovern'd, Rude, not Bred in Reason's School;
[Page 5] Our Understanding They with Darkness fill,
Cause strong Corruptions, and pervert the Will;
On These the Soul, as on some Flowing Tide,
Must sit, and on the raging Billows Ride,
Hurry'd away, for how can be withstood
Th' Impetuous Torrent of the boyling Blood?
Begon false Hopes, for all our Learning's Vain,
Can we be free, where These the Rule Maintain?
These are the Tools of Knowledge which we use;
The Spirits heated will strange Things produce;
Tell me who e'er the Passions cou'd Controul,
Or from the Body disengage the Soul;
Till this is done, our best Pursuits are vain
To conquer Truth and unmix'd Knowledge Gain.
Thro' all the bulky Volums of the Dead,
And thro' those Books that Modern Times have Bred.
With pain we Travel, as thro' moorish Ground,
Where scarce one useful Plant is ever found;
O'rerun with Errors which so thick appear,
Our Search proves vain, no spark of Truth is there.
What's all the noisie Jargon of the Schools,
But Idle Nonsense of laborious Fools,
Who fetter Reason with perplexing Rules.
[Page 6] What in Aquinas bulky Works are found
Do's not enlighten Reason but Confound.
Who Travels Scotus swelling Tomes shall find
A Clowd of Darkness rising on the Mind.
In controverted Points can Reason sway;
When Passion or Conceit still hurries us away:
Thus his new Notions Sh—k wou'd Instill,
And clear the greatest Mysteries at Will.
But by unlucky Wit perplex'd them more,
And made them darker than they were before.
S—th soon oppos'd him out of Christian Zeal,
Shewing how well he cou'd Dispute and Rail:
How shall we e're discover which is Right,
When Both so eagerly maintain the Fight?
Each do's the other's Arguments deride,
Each ha's the Church and Scripture on his side.
The sharp ill-natur'd Combat's but a Jest,
Both may be VVrong, One perhaps Errs the least:
How shall we know which Articles are True,
The Old ones of the Church or B—t's New.
In Paths Uncertain, and Unsafe he Treads,
Who blindly follows other's fertile Heads.
What sure, what certain Mark have We to know,
The Right or VVrong 'twixt B—ss, W—ke and H—w.
Shou'd untun'd Nature crave the Medic Art,
What Health can That contentious Tribe Impart?
Ev'ry Physician writes a diff'rent Bill,
And Gives no other Reason but his Will.
No longer Boast your Art ye Impious Race,
Let Wars 'twixt Alcalies and Acids Cease;
And Proud G—ll with C—ch be at Peace.
Gibbons and Ratcliff do but barely Guess,
To Day they've Good, to Morrow no Success.
Ev'n G—th and Maurus sometimes shall prevail,
When Gibson, Learned Hannes, and Tyson fail:
And more than once we've seen the Blundring S—ne
Missing the Gout by Chance ha's hit the Stone;
The Patient do's the lucky Error find,
A Cure he Works, tho' not the Cure Design'd.
Custome, the Worlds great Idol we Adore,
And knowing This, we seek to know no More;
What Education did at first receive,
Our Ripen'd Age confirms us to Belive;
The Careful Nurse, and Priest is all we Need
To Learn Opinions and our Country's Creed;
The Parents Precepts early are Instill'd,
And spoil the Man while they Instruct the Child.
[Page 8] To what hard Fate is Human Kind betray'd?
When thus Implicit Faith's a Vertue made,
When Education more than Truth prevails,
And nought is Current but what Custome Seals;
Thus from the Time we first begin to know,
We live and Learn, but not the wiser Grow:
We seldome use our Liberty aright,
Nor Judge of Things by Universal Light;
Our Prepossessions and Affections bind
The Soul in Chains, and Lord it o're the Mind;
And if Self-Interest be but in the Case,
Our unexamin'd Principles may Pass.
Good Heavens! That Man shou'd thus himself deceive,
To Learn on Credit, and on Trust believe;
Better the Mind no Notions had retain'd,
But still a fair Unwritten Blank remain'd;
For now, who Truth from Falshood wou'd discern;
must first disrobe the Mind, and all Unlearn:
Errors contracted in unmindful Youth
When once Remov'd, will smooth the Way to Truth;
To disposess the Child the Mortal Lives,
But Death approaches e're the Man Arrives.
Those who wou'd Learning's glorious Kingdom find,
The dear bought Purchase of the Trading Mind;
From many Dangers must themselves acquit,
And more than Scylla and Charibdis meet;
Oh! What an Ocean must be Voyag'd o're,
To Gain a Prospect of the shining Shore;
Resisting Rocks oppose th' Inquiring Soul,
And adverse Waves retard it as they Rowl.
Does not that Foolish deference we Pay
To Men that liv'd long since our Passage stay?
What odd prepost'rous Paths at first we Tread?
And Learn to Walk by stumbling on the Dead.
First We a Blessing from the Grave Implore,
Worship Old Vrns and Monuments Adore.
The Rev'rend Sage with vast Esteem We Prize,
He liv'd long since, and must be wond'rous Wise;
Thus are we Debtors to the famous Dead
For all those Errors which their fancies Bred;
Errors Indeed! for Real Knowledge staid
With those first Times, nor farther was Convey'd:
While light Opinions are much Lower brought,
For on the Waves of Ignorance they Float;
But solid Truth scarce ever Gains the Shore,
So soon it sinks and ne're Emerges more.
Suppose those many dreadful Dangers past,
Will Knowledge dawn, and bless the Mind at last?
Ah! No, 'tis now Environ'd from our Eyes,
Hides all its Charms and Undiscover'd Lyes.
Truth like a single Point escapes the Sight,
And Claims Intention to perceive it right;
But what resembles Truth is soon descried,
Spread like a Surface and expanded Wide.
The first Man rarely, very rarely finds
The tedious Search of long enquiring Minds;
But yet what's Worse we know not when we Err?
What Mark do's Truth, what bright distinction bear?
How do we know that what we know it True,
How shall we Falshood fly, and Truth pursue;
Let none then here his certain Knowledge Boast,
'Tis all but Probability at Most;
This is the easie Purchase of the Mind,
The Vulgar'S Treasure, which we soon may find,
But Truth lies Hid, and and e're we can Explore
The glitt'ring Gem, our Fleeting Life is o're.
FINIS.