1825.] 
{ 239 ] 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
—_— 
EPIC FRAGMENTS—No. VIII. 
— 
SUPERSTITION. 
How many crimes has Superstition made 
Which Nature meant no crimes !—how 
many woes 
On Nature’s suffering progeny entail’d 
By real crimes which she herself provok’d, 
And call’d them virtues!—cheating us to 
acts 
That war on heaven in heavyen’s insulted 
name : 
Placing a demon on the throne of God, 
In practic blasphemy ; and dooming those 
To dungeon and to gibbet and the stake, 
In whom the real godhead was too strong 
To bow in worship to the idol forms 
By venal priests array’d. 
Thou, Reason! thou,' 
Whose genuine inspiration in our hearts 
Makes revelation of the sole true faitli— 
Whose attribute is pure philanthropy, 
Unlimited by sect, or rank, or tribe, 
Tint of a skin, or colour of a creed,— 
*Tis thou art the blasphemer, whose free 
voice 
The juggler fears, and Superstition hates : 
For thou would’st mar their traffic. Thou 
hast need 
Of neither priests nor altars : need’st not buy 
Thy way to heaven with prayers of pamper’d 
drones, 4 
Who preach up abstinence, with luxury 
‘org’d, 
And chastity, with Sodom in their hearts ;— 
Who, with stern pride, teach meek humility, 
And saint it from the reek of Belial’s stew. 
Thou mak’st no truck with gorgeous Ty- 
ranny 
To share the orphan’s spoil ; nor bow’st the 
neck ; 
Of drudging hinds defrauded of their hire ; 
Nor teachest them, when Rapine stalks 
abroad 
In proud authority, to kiss the hand 
That seizes on their little all, to glut 
Insatiate waste and riotous excess. : 
Thou’rt no confederate with the merciless 
sword, 
That slaughters millions to exalt the name 
Of the thron’d ruffian, or enforce the lore 
*« That Kings alone are Heaven’s/egitimates ; 
Their people Nature’s bastards, who have here 
Nor right, nor title, nor inheritance ; 
But, ‘like the brutes that perish,’ were 
design’d 
To crouch and toil and bleed, and take as 
boon 
Such grudging offal as may scant suffice 
To make them bear their burthen ; or, when 
needs, 
To fit them for the slaughter.’’ Reason’s law 
Knows no such base commandment; nor 
subdues 
To such vile purposes the human will, 
Which Nature madeerect. "Tis only thou, 
Accursed Superstition !. can’st accord 
These aids to Tyranny—for which alone 
State-craft hath foster’d thee;—for which 
alone 
She guards thee with the penalty of laws, 
Endows thee, pampers thee, and seems to 
bend, 
(Mocking herself,) in reverence to thy nod. 
For this, imperial Rapine shares with thee 
Her greedy spoil, and else insatiate sway : 
For this with trappings decks thy fabling 
fanes, 
With incense fumes them, and with offer- 
ings loads ; 
Then bares her arm, and brandishes the bolt, 
And calls blasphemers all who dare to doubt 
Thy mystic dreams and lying oracles. 
TO MY HARP. 
Yes, my lov’d harp! the solace of my way, 
Thro’ this dark world of woes; tho’ not 
an ear 
Should listen to thy strain; tho’ not a voice 
Respond thy praise, neglected and forlorn; 
Yet would I strain thee closer to my heart, 
Touch thy lone strings, and bid thee vibrate 
still, 
Sweet harp! unheedful of the world’s 
disdain : 
It cannotsnatch from me the mountain scene, 
The rill, the valley, or the ocean flood, 
The grove sequester’d, or the winding dell, 
Or tow’ring cliff sublime. Still Nature 
spreads 
The portals of the sky, and Phoebus still 
Comes, like a bridegroom, from the gates of 
morn, 
Wak’d by thesoaring lark ; and midnightstill, 
Her broad eye beaming ’mid the twinkling 
orbs, 
Lists to the song of Philomel, or hears 
The brooks, made glad by her reflected beams, 
Murmur her praise. And these, to thee 
attun’d, 
Lov’d harp, I sing, and wake the woodland 
choir 
At dawn, or lull at eve. O syren sweet! 
Enough for me, the genial breath of morn, 
The boundless sky, and rosy hues of heay’n, 
The sombre evening, and the twilight hour, 
Nature’s close covert, and her wide expanse : 
Enough for me—for thee: thy every string 
To these can vibrate, and of these respond, 
Sweet harp !—while lonely Meditation pours 
Her soothing balm thro’ every pulse, and 
gives 
To thy wild strain its pensive harmony. 
J.S.H. 
EPIGRAM. 
* Tye made a match,”’ cries Joe. 
Says Ned—*“ God send 
“ Your wife ne’er prove it so, 
“ With brimstone at the end.” 
Blue Anchor Road. Enorr. 
