The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery Collected and Revised by the Author |
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VI.—Religious Instinct.
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 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
VI.—Religious Instinct.
But, most to that religiously-depraved
Self-righteous dream of ever-prompting Pride,—
From earth to heaven to win or work its way,
Adapting Popery, with mimetic art
Her necromance of ritual pomp applies.
A finite Self to infinite transform'd,
Some Trentine god by moral fiction shaped,
Is all that Passion's creed impure desires;
And lo! in Rome the heart's vile canons meet
Their very echo! grace and sin conjoin'd,
An outward form for inner-life prepared,
A dead religion where no God remains,—
Here is thy Charm, thou sorceress of souls!
Self-gain'd salvation forms thy secret force:
Hence liturgies, to please corruption plann'd;
Hence creeds, to flatter hope, or bribe a fear,
And all the pantomime of bows, and beads.
Thus perfect in pure falsity, Thou seem'st
By the Great Liar of the world inspired,
To set the Adam of the sensual mind
In motion; feeling, so that nothing's felt,
And working, so that nothing's truly wrought
As Law proclaims, or holy love demands.
Yet, nature, pleased with self-atonement, dares
Blindly to merit what mere Grace bestows,
And parts with all things, sin alone except!
Self-righteous dream of ever-prompting Pride,—
From earth to heaven to win or work its way,
Adapting Popery, with mimetic art
209
A finite Self to infinite transform'd,
Some Trentine god by moral fiction shaped,
Is all that Passion's creed impure desires;
And lo! in Rome the heart's vile canons meet
Their very echo! grace and sin conjoin'd,
An outward form for inner-life prepared,
A dead religion where no God remains,—
Here is thy Charm, thou sorceress of souls!
Self-gain'd salvation forms thy secret force:
Hence liturgies, to please corruption plann'd;
Hence creeds, to flatter hope, or bribe a fear,
And all the pantomime of bows, and beads.
Thus perfect in pure falsity, Thou seem'st
By the Great Liar of the world inspired,
To set the Adam of the sensual mind
In motion; feeling, so that nothing's felt,
And working, so that nothing's truly wrought
As Law proclaims, or holy love demands.
Yet, nature, pleased with self-atonement, dares
Blindly to merit what mere Grace bestows,
And parts with all things, sin alone except!
And thus, machines, by blind devotion turn'd
For rites external, Rome's deluded slaves
Become; automatons for priestly guile,
Moving, or motionless, as that inspires;
For, each false yearning of self-righteous will
In Popery some pleasing vent can find.
Devout fanatics, passionately wed
To forms, where sense o'er spirit domineers,
May there a sanctimonious refuge gain,
From seeming prayer, to suit a prayerless heart,
Down to the beads dull Superstition counts.
Rome loves the Crucifix, but hates the Cross!
And thus, whatever gull'd Emotion longs
Upon her shrine of selfishness to lay,
Her human gospel cunningly applies;
Cheating the soul with skeletons of truth.
No taste, but here a subtle pleasure finds;
No sentiment, but what some echo meets;
Nor fancy, which no fellowship can find.
There, Painting, with its poetry of hues,
And Music, with its poetry of sound,
And temples, with their poetry of stone,
All, all compose a theologic cheat
That charms the spirit from its saviour-God.
For rites external, Rome's deluded slaves
Become; automatons for priestly guile,
Moving, or motionless, as that inspires;
For, each false yearning of self-righteous will
In Popery some pleasing vent can find.
Devout fanatics, passionately wed
To forms, where sense o'er spirit domineers,
May there a sanctimonious refuge gain,
From seeming prayer, to suit a prayerless heart,
Down to the beads dull Superstition counts.
Rome loves the Crucifix, but hates the Cross!
And thus, whatever gull'd Emotion longs
Upon her shrine of selfishness to lay,
Her human gospel cunningly applies;
Cheating the soul with skeletons of truth.
No taste, but here a subtle pleasure finds;
No sentiment, but what some echo meets;
Nor fancy, which no fellowship can find.
There, Painting, with its poetry of hues,
And Music, with its poetry of sound,
And temples, with their poetry of stone,
All, all compose a theologic cheat
That charms the spirit from its saviour-God.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |