The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Tis Reason's office fully to define,
The virtuous leadings of each varied line,
To trace each labyrinthine moral maze,
Whose puzzling path blind Ignorance oft betrays—
To pry with piercing ken thro' Custom's cloud,
And strip disguising Fashion's dazzling shroud—
Turn superstition's raven veil aside,
Which would eternal Truth, and Justice hide.
Truth's stable cleanse, with Herculean toil,
So fill'd by sordid Rogues with filthy Soil.
Show how, when taught in Machiavelian Schools,
Bigots become proud Politicians' Tools;
Who make the clownish, Multitude condemn
The simplest axioms, when decried by Them;
Pronouncing Sophistry most meet, and fit,
Which contradicts clear Sense, and sacred Writ.

He never meant Man's Reason should oppose
What Revelation's documents disclose;
Yet, when disjointed parts appear to jar,
The case must come before her final Bar;
And, where they're silent, as the surest Guide,
The Suit, when dubious, or obscure, decide.

What is right Reason? 'Tis but natural, still,
Its earthly office, first, to teach the Will,
In things that appertain to Sense, and Time,
Till Heav'n reveal'd its maxims more sublime;
And then those Doctrines, Truths, and Facts, defend,
Against each impious Foe, or ignorant Friend—
Proclaim God's glory, with Life's latest breath,
In spite of Prisons—Dungeons—Chains—and Death!

When Reason shapes Hypothesis, or Plan,
'Tis but the Wisdom, still, of mortal Man;
And Theory, or Scheme, must, first, be form'd,
When apt Imagination's pow'rs are warm'd,

While every Object's lineaments are made
By teeming Fancy's prompt, and plastic, aid.
Tho' deep it pry, and diligently plod,
It ne'er can fully grasp one Work of God!
Tho' it can pierce the Earth, and plumb the Sky,
Its views ne'er can with vast Omniscience vie!
Its temporal task with heav'nly help ne'er fill,
Much less conceive, or compass all Heav'n's Will!
Can simply scan the Things of Time and Sense;
Not span the Scheme of Christ's pure Providence!
'Tis amply competent to trace the Clue,
Tho' mixt, in what fall'n Man may say, or do;
But ne'er develop all the Plan design'd
By boundless—uncreated—prescient—Mind!
Can mark by His communicated Light,
In all Acts—Words—and Thoughts, what's wrong, and right,
Nor ought to Falshood, Flattery, Fashion, stoop,
Tho' countenanc'd by learn'd, or courtly, Troop.
Thus while it keeps alive Heav'n's kindled spark,
Fools only deem, 'tis absolutely dark!
Yet Wit, and Wisdom, Folly's shame to shun,
Will say 'tis heavenly Moonshine, not the Sun—
Not suffer Pride to praise its feeble glow,
Beyond Heav'n's brighter beams which blaze below;
But like a Lamp, or Candle, keep its place,
To light Man's Mind with Truths of terrene Race.
It ne'er could thus discover Things like those
Which Revelation's clearer Lights disclose.
It never can create, by innate act,
One single Feeling, or one simple Fact—
Nor dive thro' depths of Providence, to plumb,
Or impiously pronounce on Things to come.
The Gift was granted, that Man might compare,
The chords, or discords, of those Things that are—
The fitness, or unfitness, fully clear,
Among facts—testimonies—maxims—here.

But must We then impugn that heav'nly Light,
And say with Sophs, or Novices, it's Night?
Let Knaves, and Fools, its radiant influence flout,
And aim with impious breath to blow it out.
Extinguishers of polish'd brass put o'er,
So that its sacred rays may shine no more;
Or, when extinct, with self-sufficient Airs,
Proudly presume to kindle light at Theirs.
No! let Possessors, by its heav'n-born beams,
Avoid each Vice, and Politics' extremes;
That would to Misery fall, or Madness fly,
By scorning Codes transmitted from the Sky!
Not putting out those pure celestial rays,
Then call Court-Coxcombs to point out their Ways;
Whose crackling flambeaux blaze is most unmeet
To guide weak Travellers' unskilful feet;
While selfish prospects prompt them to advise
Dark, devious, tracks, with trite, fallacious, lies;
Till, at Pride's—Appetite's—or Passion's, call,
In some deep fatal ditch both foully fall!

	CHAPTER 17th. The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse