 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
170
SCIENCE AND FAITH.
Science, with her two eyes for Far and Near,
The Infinite, th' Infinitesimal,
Can from “the vasty deep” her Spirits call;
Not the Fiend's juggling spells and shapes of fear,
But ministering powers of the sphere,
Who heal Man's ills with touch electrical
(Not King's or Saintly touch apocryphal),
And for us fly, dive, see, predict, and hear!
Science tracks out the subtle nerves, the strings
Of that mysterious lyre, the Human Mind,
And “lost Man” to his dear Gorilla brings;—
All but the Soul's dark clue: there, she's stone-blind!
Faith, driven from post to pillar, clipt her wings,
Falls o'er the dread abyss of th' Undivin'd!
The Infinite, th' Infinitesimal,
Can from “the vasty deep” her Spirits call;
Not the Fiend's juggling spells and shapes of fear,
But ministering powers of the sphere,
Who heal Man's ills with touch electrical
(Not King's or Saintly touch apocryphal),
And for us fly, dive, see, predict, and hear!
Science tracks out the subtle nerves, the strings
Of that mysterious lyre, the Human Mind,
And “lost Man” to his dear Gorilla brings;—
All but the Soul's dark clue: there, she's stone-blind!
Faith, driven from post to pillar, clipt her wings,
Falls o'er the dread abyss of th' Undivin'd!
Alas! poor Faith, thou art in sorry plight!
Thy plumes all ruffled in this rude resort,
Where what is death to thee is scoff and sport
To doubters; darkness, too, to thee their light.
They (as men nightingales) put out thy sight,
And clip thy wings, that thou in sorry sort
May'st sing thy requiem, while they report
Thee living, who have almost killed outright!
The feathers moult fast off thy angel-wing;
Poor bird of Paradise! thou pin'st away.
“The missing link” once found, Man grows a thing
Of Earth, and with “Gorilla” shares his clay!
The new “Religion” this, to bind and bring
In one again, and reunite the stray!
Thy plumes all ruffled in this rude resort,
Where what is death to thee is scoff and sport
To doubters; darkness, too, to thee their light.
They (as men nightingales) put out thy sight,
And clip thy wings, that thou in sorry sort
May'st sing thy requiem, while they report
Thee living, who have almost killed outright!
The feathers moult fast off thy angel-wing;
Poor bird of Paradise! thou pin'st away.
“The missing link” once found, Man grows a thing
Of Earth, and with “Gorilla” shares his clay!
The new “Religion” this, to bind and bring
In one again, and reunite the stray!
| Stones from The Quarry | |