Unhappy man!
Who, thro’ successive years,
From early
youth to life’s last childhood errs;
No sooner
born but proves a foe to truth
For infant
Reason is o’erpow’r’d in youth.
The cheats
of sense will half our learning share,
And
preconceptions all our knowledge are.
Reason, ‘tis
true, should over sense of preside,
Correct our
notions, and our judgements guide;
But false
opinions, rooted in the mind,
Hoodwink the
soul, and keep our reason blind.
Reason’s a
taper which faintly burns;
A languid
flame, that glows and dies by turns:
We see’t a
little while, and but a little way;
We travel by
its light, as men by day;
But quickly
dying it forsakes us soon,
Like
morning-stars, that never stay till noon.
The soul can
scarce above the body rise,
All we see
is with corporeal eyes.
Life now
does scarce one glimpse of light display:
We mourn in
darkness, and despair of day:
That nat’ral
light, once dress’d with orient beams,
Is now diminished,
and a twilight seems;
A
miscellaneous composition, made
Of night and
day, of sunshine and shade.
Thro’ an
uncertain medium now we look,
And find
that falsehood which for truth we took:
So rays
projected from the eastern skies
Shew the
false day before the sun can rise.
That little
knowledge now which man maintains,
From outward
objects and from sense he gains:
He, like a
wretched slave, most plod and sweat,
By day must
toil, by night that toil repeat;
And yet at
last what little fruit he gains!
A beggars
harvest, glean’d with mighty pains.
The passions
still predominant will rule,
Ungovern’d
rude, not bred in Reason’s school;
Our
understanding they with darkness fill,
Cause strong
corruptions, and pervert the will:
On these the
soul, as on some flowing tide,
Mus sit ,
and on the raging billows ride,
Hurry’d
away; for how can be withstood
Th’
impetuous torrent of the boiling blood?
Be gone,
false hopes! for all our learning’s vain;
Can we be
free where these the rule maintain?
These are
the tools of knowledge which we use:
The spirits
heated will strange things produce.
Tell me who
e’er the passions could control,
Or from the
body disingage the soul:
Till this is
done our best pursuits are vain
To conquer
truth, and unmix’d knowledge gain.
Thro’ all
the bulky volumes of the dead,
And thro’
those books that modern times have bred,
With pain we
travel, as thro’ moorish ground,
Where scarce
one useful plant is ever found;
O’er-run
with errors, which so thick appear,
Our search
proves vain, no spark of truth is there.
What’s all
the noisy jargon of the schools
But idle
nonsense of laborious fools,
Who fetter
reason with perplexing rules?
What in
Aquinas’ bulky works are found
Does not
enlighten Reason, but confound.
Who travels
Scotus’ swelling tomes shall find
A cloud of
darkness rising on the mind.
In
controverted points can reason sway,
When passion
of conceit still hurries us away?
Thus his new
notions Sherlock would instill,
And clear
the greatest mysteries at will;
Bu by
unlucky wit perplex’d them more,
And made
them darker than they were before.
South soon
oppos’d him, out of Christian zeal,
Shewing how
well he could dispute and rail.
How shall we
e’er discover which is right,
When both so
eagerly maintain the fight?
Each does
the other’s argument’s deride;
Each has the
Church and Scripture on his side:
The sharp
ill-natur’d combat’s but a jest:
Both may be
wrong; one, perhaps, errs the least.
How shall we
know which Articles are true,
The Old
ones of the church, or Burnet’s New?
In paths
uncertain and unsafe he treads,
Who blindly
follows others’ fertile heads.
What sure,
what certain mark have we to know
The right or
wrong ‘twixt Burgess, Wake, and Howe?
Should untun’d
Nature crave the medic art,
What health
can that contentious tribe impart?
Ev’ry
physician writes a diff’rent bill
And gives no
other reason, but his will.
No longer
boast your art, ye impious race!
Let wars ‘twixt
alcalies and acids cease,
And proud
G—ll with Colbatch be at peace.
Gibbons and
Radcliffe do but rarely guess;
To-day they’ve
good, to-morow no success.
Ev’n Garth
and Maurus (Sir Richard Blackmore) sometimes shall prevail,
When Gibson,
learned Hainnes, and Tyson,fail.
And, more
than once, we’ve seen that blund’ring S—ne,
Missing the
gout, by chance has hit the stone;
The patient
does the lucky error find;
A cure he
works, tho’ not the cure deign’d.
Custom, the
world’s great idol, we adore,
And knowing
this we seek to know no more.
What
education did at first receive,
Our ripened
age confirms us to believe:
The
careful nurse and priest are all we need,
To learn
opinions and our county’s creed:
The parents’
precepts early are instill’d,
And spoil
the man while they instruct the child
To what hard
fate is human-kind betray’d,
When thus
implicit faith’s a virtue made,
When
education more than truth prevails,
And nought
is current but what custom seals?
Thus from
the time we first began to know,
We live and
learn, but not the wiser grow.
We seldom
use our liberty aright,
Nor judge of
things by universal light;
Our
prepossessions and affections bind
The soul in
chains, and lord it o’er the mind;
And if
self-int’rest be but in the case,
Our examin’d
principles may pass.
Good Heav’ns!
that man should thus himself deceive,
To learn on
credit, and on trust believe!
Better he
mind no notions had retained,
But still a
fair unwritten blank remain’d:
For now, who
truth from falsehood would discern,
Must first
disprove the mind, and all unlearn.
Errors
contracted in unmindful youth,
When once
remov’d will smooth the way to truth.
To
dispossess the child the mortal lives.
But death
approaches ere the man arrives.
Those who
would learning’s glorious kingdom find,
The dear
bought purchase of the trading mind,
From many
dangers must themselves acquit,
And more
than Scylla and Charybdis meet.
Oh! what an
ocean must be voyag’d o’er
To gain a
prospect of the shining shore?
Resisting
rocks oppose th’ inquiring soul,
And adverse
waves retard it as they roll.
Does not
that foolish deference we pay
To men that
liv’d long since our passage stay?
What
odd prepost’rous paths at first we tread,
And learn to
walk by stumbling on the dead?
First we a
blessing from the grave implore,
Worship old
urns, and monuments adore;
The rev’red
sage, with vast esteem we prize;
He lived
long since and must be wondrous wise.
Thus are we
debtors to the famous dead
For all
those errors which their fancies bred:
Errors
indeed! for real knowledge stay’d
With those
first times,nor father was convey’d,
While light
opinions are much lower brought,
For on the
waves of ignorance they float;
But solid
truth scarce ever gains the shore,
So soon it
sinks, and ne’er emerges more.
Will
knowledge dawn and bless the mind at last?
Ah! no; ‘tis charms, and undiscovered lies.
Truth, like
a single point, escapes the sight,
And claims
attention to perceive it right:
But what
resembles truth is soon descry’d
Spread like
a surface and expanded wide.
The first
man rarely, very rarely, finds
The tedious
search of long inquiring minds:
But yet what’s
worse, we know not when we err;
What mark
does truth, what bright distinction , bear?
How do we
know that what we know is true?
How shall we
falsehood fly, and truth pursue?
Let none
then here his certain knowledge boast,
‘Tis all but
probability at most:
This is the
easy purchase of the mind,
The vulgar’s
treasure, which we soon may find:
But truth
lies hid, and ere we can explore
The glitt’ring
gem, our fleeting life is o’er.
John Pomfret
Was searching through old poems - and the name for this one caught my eye. It looked interesting enough, so started transcribing...and transcribing (P.S happy to have people point out mistakes, just be careful I've deliberately tried to leave in the spelling of the day, not to mention the apostrophes and inconsistent captilisation of the word reason. Still, it was a fun romp, showing that even while things change (the poets idea of reason would have encompassed his religious views) they stay the same.
I think the modern version would be a heap shorter - along the lines of "You want the truth...you can't handle the truth, and even if you could, you'd never see it because the only thing you've learned is how to close your eyes!!" ;)
Have a great week
A.J. Ponder
PS, please note this poem has thematic links to my recent "Hey Neil DeGrasse Tyson, There's No Need to Welcome Science"
PS, please note this poem has thematic links to my recent "Hey Neil DeGrasse Tyson, There's No Need to Welcome Science"
