Closes his eyes upon the holy word, And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, Dares to declare his infidelity, And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts? What is philosophy, if it impart Irreverence for the Deity, or teach A mortal man to set his judgment up Against his Maker's will? The Polygar, Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys, Is the most bless'd of men! Oh! I would walk A weary journey, to the furthest verge Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, Feeling the sense of his own littleness, Is as a child in meek simplicity! What is the pomp of learning? the parade Of letters and of tongues? e'en as the mists Of the gray morn before the rising sun, That pass away and perish. Earthly things Are but the transient pageants of an hour; And earthly pride is like the passing flower, That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 'T is as the tower erected on a cloud, Baseless and silly as the schoolboy's dream. Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, And then record its downfall, what are they But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain? Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserve Its stated eras? Doth the Omnipotent Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays? There is to God nor future nor a past; Throned in his might, all times to him are present; He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come; He sees before him one eternal now. Time moveth not!--our being 't is that moves; And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, Dream of swift ages and revolving years, Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days: So the young sailor in the gallant bark, Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, And that the land is sailing. Such, alas! Are the illusions of this proteus life! All, all is false: through every phasis still 'T is shadowy and deceitful. It assumes The semblances of things and specious shapes; But the lost traveller might as soon rely On the evasive spirit of the marsh, Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, As we on its appearances. On earth There is no certainty nor stable hope. As well the weary mariner, whose bark Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain, And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust To expectation of serener skies, And linger in the very jaws of death, Because some peevish cloud were opening, Or the loud storm had bated in its rage; As we look forward in this vale of tears To permanent delight--from some slight glimpse Of shadowy, unsubstantial happiness.