 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
200
PHILOSOPHY AND RELIGION.
There is a Philosophy, hollow, unsound,
To matter confining its false speculations;
Whose flight is restrained within Nature's dull round,
Its pinions the web of sophistic persuasions.
To matter confining its false speculations;
Whose flight is restrained within Nature's dull round,
Its pinions the web of sophistic persuasions.
And there 's a Philosophy truly divine,
That traces effects up to spiritual causes,
Determines the link of the chain where they join,
And soars to an infinite height ere it pauses.
That traces effects up to spiritual causes,
Determines the link of the chain where they join,
And soars to an infinite height ere it pauses.
That meanly debases the image of God,
To rank with the brutes in the scale of creation;
This raises the tenant of light from the sod,
And bears him to heaven, his primitive station.
To rank with the brutes in the scale of creation;
This raises the tenant of light from the sod,
And bears him to heaven, his primitive station.
Hail, science of Angels! Theosophy, hail!
That shows us the regions of bliss by reflection;
Removes from creation's broad mirror the vail,
Where spirit and matter appear in connection.
That shows us the regions of bliss by reflection;
Removes from creation's broad mirror the vail,
Where spirit and matter appear in connection.
Its breaks on the soul in an ocean of light,
She starts from her lethargy stretches her pinions,
Beholds a new world bursting forth on her sight,
And, soaring in ecstacy, claims her dominions.
She starts from her lethargy stretches her pinions,
201
And, soaring in ecstacy, claims her dominions.
A sense of original, dignified worth,
Her bosom expands with sublime exultation;
She tastes immortality even on earth,
In light that eclipses the sun's emanation.
Her bosom expands with sublime exultation;
She tastes immortality even on earth,
In light that eclipses the sun's emanation.
Be sages and pedants to nature confined,
As the bat darkly flutters in Luna's pale presence;
I'll soar, like the eagle, through regions of mind,
In the blaze of that Sun which is truth in its essence.
As the bat darkly flutters in Luna's pale presence;
I'll soar, like the eagle, through regions of mind,
In the blaze of that Sun which is truth in its essence.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |