On the Investigation of Truth

Too long have childish bards, too long,
Their hours employ'd in idle song;
Busied the lineaments to trace
Of wither'd Fiction's painted face;
Where not a native beauty blows,
But cankers eat the budding rose!
Yet, captive to her smiles and wit,
Pleas'd with their chains, her slaves have writ,
And all the labour'd pomp of verse
Employ'd, her fables to rehearse;
While thou, O sacred Truth! remain
The theme of ev'ry humbler strain.
And yet, believe what each pretends,
And num'rous are her rhyming friends!
While such her fond admirers prove,
And tune their rival songs to love.
But, fools in fondness as in awe,
The truth, 'tis plain, they never saw;
And but themselves her lovers boast,
Because her name the public toast;
Still playing a fictitious part;
No real passion at the heart.
For say, what lover's passion's true
For beauty that he never knew?
So eastern monarch's love their wives,
Tho' barren strangers all their lives.
So lov'd la Mancha's famous knight
The Fair, for whom he swore to fight;
Fir'd by th' enthusiastic rage,
With men and monsters to engage.
Yet ask'd, for whom this martial strife?
He never saw her in her life:
Nor was he positive, God wot,
Whether, indeed, she liv'd or not.

Thus bards too oft, in truth's defence,
Break through the rules of common sense;
And, o'er his rival, each, t' aspire,
Strives which shall prove the greatest liar:
Strange to the liberty of thought,
Vile slaves! but seeking to be bought,
To lying faction early train'd,
A purchase by the truth disdain'd.
Mean-time, as insolent as vain,
They freedom's sacred name profane,
And, boasting, hug the chains that bind
That worst of slaves, the servile mind,
Such, Dryden, thou immortal bard,
Whose genius claims supreme regard;
How honour'd, might not truth accuse
Thy venal, prostituted muse.

Say'st thou 'tis strange the world should rest
Content, by falsehood thus depress'd?
Alas, thou little know'st mankind,
Who, seeing, imitate the blind;
In spite of truth and open day,
In darkness choose to grope their way;
Suspecting plainness of disguise,
The obvious sense of terms despise;
From sound or derivation gleaning
Some far-fetch'd, dark and doubtful meaning:
While each impostor's word prevails
In mystic parables and tales;
Neglected e'en the word divine,
If with it sense and reason join.

Look back through each successive age:
How honour'd the mysterious page!
What millions have been the tools
Of knaves, whose nat'ral prey is fools!
How strangely trick'd deluded crowds
Who, truth expecting from the clouds,
And therefore gaping into th' air,
On error stumbled unaware!
Thus an astrologer of old,
In learned history we're told,
Contemplating the milky way,
Neglected that before him lay;
And, led by wand'ring planets, fell,
Unluckily into a well.
Yet e'er with slander branding those
Who seek the naked truth t' expose,
Short-sighted mortals, in their pride,
Thus strive their ignorance to hide;
By holding all beyond their view
Beyond investigation too.

Lorenzo, our misfortune here
Th' effect of idleness and fear.
The sluggard shuns inquiry's task,
Because too great the pains to ask;
Stifling th' emotions of his breast,
T' indulge his lazy brains in rest.
A paradox, yet such the fact,
More fear to think than fear to act;
In thought, tho' danger we surmize,
In act while real danger lies.
In truth, my friend, 'tis sad to find
Hence rise the zeal of half mankind;
Religion but the compound vice
Of indolence and cowardice.
Ev'n pious christians, much I fear,
Are practically atheists here.
How deaf and blind to calls of grace
When nature wears a smiling face,
But when she frowns, in wild amaze
Look how th' affrighted cowards gaze!
When clouds drop fatness on the plains,
In mildly-soft descending rains;
In their due season harvests smile,
And plenty crowns the peasant's toil:
As nothing rare, as nothing new,
We take the blessing as our due.
For O! prosperity's a lot
At ease enjoy'd, with ease forgot.
In june's warm sun and april's shower
We trace not an almighty power:
Ingrates! so light of heav'n we make,
Nor think the hand that gives may take.
But ah! when threat'ning storms arise;
When thunders rattle through the skies;
When the tall mountain bows its head,
And earthquakes vomit up the dead;
Behold whole nations prostrate fall
Before the mighty God of all.
T' appease his anger now their care,
Lo, all is fasting, sighs and pray'r;
Till, the dread storm blown haply o'er,
They rise and revel as before,
Forget, or ridicule, the rod;
And laugh to scorn the fear of God.
Nor only mov'd when danger's nigh,
Our fears awake the gen'ral cry;
Imaginary scenes, alike,
The dastard soul with terror strike;
While to the coward's opticks seem
Light straws as each a giant's beam.
In honour thus of God above,
So weakly draw the cords of love;
While nature's groans, or fancy's fears,
Drive headlong down the vale of tears.

Lorenzo, wouldst thou freely trace
Whence grows a cowardice so base?
At th' early dawn of moral sense
Th' infatuation did commence;
And, propagated since by art,
We all have, more or less, a part.

Ere hermit bald or pilgrim grey
Had worn the solitary way;
Ere yet the monk had told his beads;
Ere yet credulity or creeds;
To school, with sober Reason sent,
Young Genius to Experience went.
The latter, tho' as yet, 'tis true,
No wiser than the former two,
In charge the tender pupils took,
And with them read in Nature's book.
So pedagogues, unletter'd, use
No class of blockheads to refuse;
But gravely undertake t' explain
The arts themselves must first attain;
Sufficient if the master goes
Before his blundering pupil's nose.
Careful his vacant hours t' employ,
Now Reason prov'd a hopeful boy:
But Genius, insolent and wild,
By nature an assuming child,
A treach'rous memory his lot,
The little that he learn'd forgot;
Nor gave himself a moments pain
To con his lessons o'er again;
But, trusting to his forward parts,
Debauch'd with wit the sister-arts;
Who, yet unsettled, young and frail,
Enamour'd, listen'd to his tale;
And, since the cause of dire disputes,
Turn'd out abandon'd prostitutes:
By priest and prophet, once enjoy'd,
To basest purposes employ'd;
For ages past, their only use
To vitiate reason or traduce.
For this, Tradition foremost came,
Instruction was her maiden name,
Now grown a smooth-tongu'd slipp'ry jade,
An arrant mistress of her trade.
She told the stories, o'er and o'er,
That Genius told the Arts before,
Repeating lies, as liars do,
Till in the end they think them true;
And when detected in her lie,
" Myst'ry"—the biter's arch reply,

By this fine dame our mothers taught,
Their scheme of education wrought;
So train'd us early to deceit,
To look on Reason as a cheat;
To lies first tun'd the op'ning ear;
Awoke our earliest sense to fear;
With monsters and chimeras vain,
Fill'd the soft head and turn'd the brain;
Till the fond fools, to top their part,
Fix'd the rank coward at the heart.
Nor with our growing years releas'd;
The nurse but moulds us for the priest;
Who, lest his ward, grown sly or stout,
Should find the knavish secret out,
The bugbear from his reach removes,
And all th' old woman's tale improves,
Passions more riotous to quell,
Chang'd the dark hole for darker hell,
The truant damn'd for naughty play,
Black-monday now's the judgment-day;
In promise, hopes, for toys, are given,
And endless holidays in heav'n.

The groundless fear and vain desire,
Which hence mankind in youth acquire,
How deeply rooted do we find;
How fix'd th' impressions on the mind!
The weakness of those childish fears,
Too oft increasing with our years;
While ev'ry infant joy and strife,
Improv'd, is carried into life!
For see the idiot and the wise,
Each from his own fond shadow flies;
Like curs, that run till nature fails!
A bladder fasten'd to their tails.

With idle fears the world t' abuse,
Assistant here th' inventive muse;
The tale of wonder early taught,
When playful, young, and void of thought,
By stroling Fancy led astray,
The vagrant troul'd the jovial lay.
Alas! of mirth and pleasure cur'd,
To horror's brownest shade inur'd;
By love of wonder since betray'd,
To lend fantastic Spleen her aid:
For whom her numbers, sad and slow,
In dismal melancholly flow;
Condemn'd to murmur all the day;
To sigh and groan the midnight lay;
The skull, the spade, the shroud, the herse,
The doleful implements of verse;
Or doom'd prepost'rous tales to tell,
By brain-sick Fiction brought from hell.
For know th' unwary muse was caught
While Fiction yet her friend was thought;
A hag, by Ignorance badly nurs'd,
With craving appetite accurs'd,
To Spleen's embrace, while yet a maid,
The dire chlorosis had betray'd.
Since when, the wretch has roam'd abroad,
Her sullen tyrant's willing bawd;
A vile procuress, to supply
The love of wonder with a lie.
Hence bards, that reason less than rail,
Affect to tell the woeful tale;
Or vent their moralizing rage;
As bugbears of a fearful age;
To truth pretending to be led
By megrims in the sick man's head;
As if with zeal prophetic burn'd
The wretch whose blister'd head was turn'd;
The fittest those the truth to teach,
By fevers half-depriv'd of speech;
Whose fault'ring tongues most loud complain,
When death or doctors shake the brain.
Nor seldom, by transition led
From dying moralists to dead,
Tristful, in hypocondres vex'd,
The musing parson chews his text;
Some solemn scene of dulness sought,
To aid his rectitude of thought;
The murky vaults, the haunted cells,
Where moping Melancholy dwells,
And Fear, that kneels in piteous plight,
Her straggling hair all bolt upright.
Fit comrades these as e'er could chuse
The splenetic or maudlin muse;
Her doleful ditties proud to sing
Where sadness spreads her dusky wing;
Where croaks the syren of the lake
The light-of-heart from ease to wake;
And solemn owls, in concert grave,
Join hoot the worldly-wise to save.

'Twas thus enthusiastic Young;
'Twas thus affected Hervey sung;
Whose motley muse, in florid strain,
With owls did to the moon complain;
Clear'd at the morn her raven throat,
To sound the glibber magpy's note.
Mean-while Religion gravely smil'd
To see grown Piety a child;
In leading-strings to find her led,
By those her fost'ring hand had bred.
For why confin'd the moral muse,
To blasted oaks or baleful yews;
O'er graves to make fantastick moan,
And deepen Horror's dismal groan?
Say, hath alone the mould'ring tomb
For pious Meditation room?
Ah! wont with meek-eyed Peace to rove,
Through church-way path or silent grove;
Her grateful influence round her shed,
Where groan the sick, or sleep the dead;
With truth and soberness serene,
Enliv'ning ev'ry solemn scene;
Disarming Terror of it's pow'r,
To wander at the midnight hour;
Sweet Philomel, harmonious spright,
The only spectre of the night.
Can love of truth impose the task,
To lurk beneath a gorgon mask;
To stalk, in garb terrific clad,
And scoul the weak and wicked mad;
Or drive the wretch, o'erwhelm'd with care,
In godly frenzy, to despair?
Is folly vice, fear makes it worse;
Reflection is the coward's curse:
Unless remorse in mercy given,
To damn self-murderers to heaven.
Why, then, is sought the midnight shade
From vice or falsehood to dissuade?
Is night less vicious than the day?
Doth error guide the solar ray?
Or is exhal'd, like morning dew,
The moral object or the true?
O, most ridiculous the scene,
Where superstition feeds the spleen;
Where the grey spectre stalks to view,
As burns th' expiring taper blue;
Or dances o'er the dizzy sight
The form of many a dreadful spright:
Mean-while a victim to his fears
The moon-struck moralist appears.
For when the brain wild fancy fires;
Reason most prudently retires.
As sober men from drunkards part,
For such companions griev'd at heart.

Awes, then, with tremulous restraint
The painted urn or plaster saint?
Humbles the mutilated bust
The rotten sinner to the dust?
Lorenzo, here, no error make,
Nor cowardice for conscience take.
Alas, repentance, void of root,
May blossom fair yet fail of fruit:
Attrition vain and insincere
Mere weakness all, unmanly fear.

In the dark grove what horrour reigns
To chill the blood in Chiron's veins,
When th' ignis-fatuus glares, by night,
Terrific witchcraft to his sight;
Or, animated by his fears,
Alive the fresh-lopp'd elm appears;
A giant ghost the dreadful bush,
Shook by some formidable thrush,
That nightly perching on its breast,
Securely builds or tends her nest;
While on the next tremendous spray,
The nightingale repeats her lay:
Th' heroic titmouse or the wren
Less timid than the sons of men;
Who yet to conscience give the lie,
And dare the pow'r of truth defy.

For know, no tremour can impart
Conviction to the skeptick's heart:
Nor takes, like agues, in a fright,
Trembling Impiety its flight.
Behold the tyrant's iron hand,
That holds in chains a captive land;
In whose firm grasp imprison'd lies
Bold freedom, struggling as it dies;
Crush'd by whose weight the monarch bleeds,
And sceptres break like blighted reeds:
See this strong hand let fall the rod,
And tremble if the bulrush nod;
Belshazzar's like, enervate fall,
If laid a finger on the wall:
The wretch of God nor man afraid,
Yet trembling at an empty shade!

Nor only fear th' immoral crew;
The coward Pious tremble too;
Philosophy herself a fool,
Attended by her nurse to school.
Such dupes to fear, at times, we find
The best, the wisest of mankind!
For Oh! what antidote so strong
As poison that has work'd so long!
What drug eradicates the pest,
Suck'd from the mother's tainted breast?
In vain the doctor we may try;
No doctor's fee our cure can buy:
Tho, tamp'ring with the dire disease,
Licentiates mock with present ease;
And emp'ricks, salving ev'ry sore,
With nostrums make it rage the more.

Sayst thou, in policy, afraid
To spoil the priest's and lawyer's trade,
The statesman, topping the divine,
Supports with pow'r the same design;
To keep th' inquisitive in awe,
Smacking his long-tail'd whip, the law;
Still thund'ring in the vulgar ear
Implicit faith and groundless fear:
The nostrums these of church and state;
To make a nation good and great.
Thus forfeit patriots that pretence
They make, as men, to common-sense?
Can ignorance be understood
As needful to the public good;
That free inquiry such decry;
And boast their salutary lie?
Or, are they here by habit led,
And innovation's tumult dread?
So sacred held the stated rules
Of Custom, law-giver to fools!
Yet Custom's rules caprice has broke,
And turn'd her statutes into joke;
Nor boast her laws, however old,
Resistance to the pow'r of gold.
Shall Science, then, still drag her chain,
And sigh for liberty in vain?
Forbid it heav'n! that thus the mind,
By tyrant policy confin'd,
Should bow while Falsehood bears the sway,
And give the cause of Truth away.
Is this, Lorenzo, to be free?
Are these the sweets of liberty?
That glorious priv'lege yours and mine,
In our own sties, like sensual swine,
At will to grumble, eat and drink;
But ah, prohibited to think!
Our nobler appetites denied
Their proper food, and damn'd for pride;
Forbad our reason to employ;
Depriv'd of each sublimer joy;
Robb'd of the privilege to know;
Man's chief prerogative below!

May Britons boast, of all mankind,
The nobler fortitude of mind;
To set blind prejudice apart;
To rend th' old woman from the heart;
To laugh at blind tradition's rules,
The mother and the nurse of fools?
Have they with blood so dearly bought.
Their boasted privilege of thought;
To throw like school-boys, tir'd with play,
The long disputed prize away?
Ah! had not custom often fail'd,
What barbarism had still prevail'd?
Deaf to the call of truth and grace,
Denying reformation place,
What lengths still stubborn faith had run,
To end what madd'ning zeal begun?
In honour still of Moloch's name,
Our children might have pass'd the flame;
By persecution's faggot rais'd,
Religious fires in Smithfield blaz'd;
Or now, as in a Stuart's reign,
Been dy'd with blood Iërne's plain.

Nay still how prepossess'd we find
With pious falsehoods half mankind.
Think from the stake how late repriev'd
Wretches, no charity reliev'd:
Oh horror! to the slaughter led,
For wearing rags and wanting bread;
Doom'd by inhuman, legal rage
Martyrs to poverty and age.
See still th' enthusiastic band
Cant, whine, and madden o'er the land;
By scripture-craz'd fanaticks led,
Whitfield or Westley, at their head.
See ev'n the learning of our schools
Perverted to bewilder fools;
The words of plainness to disguise,
And baffle reason with surprize;
While truth and nature plead in vain
Against the comment of Romaine.
Ah! think how fatal, soon or late,
Such crazy members to the state:
How dang'rous to the public weal
Blind ignorance and foolish zeal.
Reflect in what a dreadful hour
Nonsense usurp'd the hand of power;
When puritans the land o'er-run,
And sacrilege was pious fun:
While wretches for their country's good,
Dipt their vile hands in royal blood!

Is ignorance the curse of God?
Avert good Heav'n th' impending rod!
O leave, ye patriots, leave the mind
In search of knowledge unconfin'd:
Lest Truth your cunning should despise,
Returning to its native skies.
Good policy to truth's ally'd;
By science guided, not its guide.

Cease too, ye bards, so wond'rous wise,
T' instruct by means you should despise.
In sober sadness, much too long
Mankind have listen'd to your song;
Have strain'd the mental eye, to see
Your false, fantastic imag'ry;
With gaudy colours glaring bright,
To captivate the vulgar sight;
The gaping idiot's grin of praise,
Or stare of ignorance to raise:
Nay, tho' approv'd your moral ends,
Ye still are truth's mistaken friends,
Ah! full as dang'rous to her cause
As even those who spurn her laws.

No visionary fears intrude
Where triumphs moral rectitude.
Truth all the artifice disdains
Of dungeons deep, and clanking chains;
Skulks not in life's sequester'd way;
But walks abroad in open day.
'Tis Falsehood, her grim face to hide,
Shuffles on nature's darkest side;
Baffling, in Terror's murky den,
The scrutiny of honest men.