SECTION VIII.
OF FOOLS WHO CONTEMN AND DESPISE
RELIGION.
Parcus deorum cultor, et infrequens insanientis dum
sapientiæ consultus erro; nunc retrorsum vela dare atque
iterare cursus cogor relictos.
To taunt religion now a days,
And laugh to scorn all sacred writ;
From ideot tongues ensures loud praise,
And passes for consummate wit.
The Church, with ev'ry form of Pray'r,
For reason's Temple
men disdain;
And turn to jest the pastor's care,
Because some points he can't explain.
“What,” cries the Deist, with a sneer,
“Redemption!—Priests may gain their ends;”
“But would a parent pay so dear
“As give a son to save his friends?”
“A great First Cause”, the Atheists cry,
“Consummate nonsense to advance;”
“That boundless space which men call sky”
“Contains a God—there's none but Chance.”
And canst thou jeer at mercy's theme,
Nor think upon thy soul's dread loss?
Canst thou deride, for impious dream,
Thy bleeding Saviour on the Cross;
For shame, for shame, no longer yield,
Thy dormant faith arouse from sleep:
Drive irreligion from the field,
Nor laugh at what made angels weep.
L'ENVOY OF THE POET.
If doubts assail thee, bid thy reason speak:
This truth must ev'ry wav'ring thought disarm:
That faith whose attribute is mild and meek,
Can only tend to good—not lead to harm.
THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.
Come trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.
