University of Virginia Library

A youth, a pupil of the town,
Philosopher and atheist grown,
Benighted once upon the road,
Found out a Hermit's lone abode,
Whose hospitality in need
Reliev'd the trav'ler and his steed,
For both sufficiently were tir'd,
Well drench'd in ditches and bemir'd.
Hunger the first attention claims;
Upon the coals a rasher flames,
Dry crusts, and liquor something stale,
Were added to make up a meal;
At which our trav'ler as he sat
By intervals began to chat.—

'Tis odd, quoth he, to think what strains
Of folly govern some folks brains:
What makes you choose this wild abode?
You'll say, 'tis to converse with God:
Alas, I fear, 'tis all a whim;
You never saw or spoke with him.
They talk of Providence's pow'r,
And say it rules us every hour;
To me all nature seems confusion,
And such weak fancies mere delusion.
Say, if it rul'd and govern'd right
Cou'd there be such a thing as night;
Which, when the sun has left the skies,
Puts all things in a deep disguise?
If then a trav'ler chance to stray
The least step from the public way,
He's soon in endless mazes lost,
As I have found it to my cost.
Besides, the gloom which nature wears,
Assists imaginary fears
Of ghosts and goblins from the waves
Of sulph'rous lakes and yawning graves;
All sprung from superstitious feed,
Like other maxims of the creed.
For my part, I reject the tales
Which faith suggests when reason fails;
And reason nothing understands,
Unwarranted by eyes and hands.
These subtil essences, like wind,
Which some have dreamt of and call mind,
It ne'er admits; nor joins the lie
Which says men rot, but never die.
It holds all future things in doubt,
And therefore wisely leaves them out:
Suggesting what is worth our care,
To take things present as they are,
Our wisest course: the rest is folly
The fruit of spleen and melancholly.—

Sir, quoth the Hermit, I agree
That reason still our guide shou'd be:
And will admit her as the test,
Of what is true and what is best:
But reason sure wou'd blush for shame
At what you mention in her name;
Her dictates are sublime and holy:
Impiety's the child of folly:
Reason with measur'd steps and slow
To things above from things below
Ascends, and guides us thro' her sphere
With caution, vigilance and care.
Faith in the utmost frontier stands,
And reason puts us in her hands,
But not till her commission giv'n
Is found authentic, and from heav'n.
'Tis strange that man, a reas'ning creature,
Shou'd miss a God in viewing nature:
Whose high perfections are display'd
In ev'ry thing his hands have made:
Ev'n when we think their traces lost,
When found again, we see them most;
The night itself which you would blame
As something wrong in nature's frame,
Is but a curtain to invest
Her weary children, when at rest:
Like that which mothers draw to keep
The light off from a child asleep.
Beside, the fears which darkness breeds,
At least augments, in vulgar heads,
Are far from useless, when the mind
Is narrow and to earth confin'd;
They make the worldling think with pain
On frauds and oaths and ill got gain;
Force from the russian's hand the knife
Just rais'd against his neighbour's life;
And in defence of virtue's cause
Assist each sanction of the laws.
But souls serene, where wisdom dwells
And superstitious dread expels,
The silent majesty of night
Excites to take a nobler flight;
With saints and angels to explore
The wonders of creating pow'r;
And lifts on contemplation's wings
Above the sphere of mortal things:
Walk forth and tread those dewy plains
Where night in awful silence reigns;
The sky's serene, the air is still,
The woods stand list'ning on each hill,
To catch the sounds that sink and swell
Wide-floating from the ev'ning bell,
While foxes howl and beetles hum,
Sounds which make silence still more dumb:
And try if folly rash and rude
Dares on the sacred hour intrude.
Then turn your eyes to heav'n's broad frame,
Attempt to quote those lights by name,
Which shine so thick and spread so far;
Conceive a sun in every star,
Round which unnumber'd planets roll,
While comets shoot athwart the whole.
From system still to system ranging,
Their various benefits exchanging,
And shaking from their flaming hair
The things most needed every where.
Explore this glorious scene, and say
That night discovers less than day;
That 'tis quite useless, and a sign
That chance disposes, not design:
Whoe'er maintains it, I'll pronounce
Him either mad or else a dunce.
For reason, tho' 'tis far from strong,
Will soon find out that nothing's wrong,
From signs and evidences clear,
Of wise contrivance every where.

The Hermit ended, and the youth
Became a convert to the truth;
At least, he yielded, and confest
That all was order'd for the best.