REASON:

A POEM.

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'erpower'd in Youth:
 The Cheats of Sense will half our Learning share;
 And Pre-Conceptions all our Knowledge are. 
Reason, 'tis true, should over Sense preside,
 Correct our Notions, and our Judgment guide;
 But false Opinions, rooted in the Mind,
 Hoodwink the Soul, and keep our Reason blind. 
Reason's a Taper, which but saintly 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,
 And 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 drest with Orient Beams,
 Is now diminish'd, and a Twilight seems,
 A miscellaneous Composition made,
 Of Night, and Day, of Sun-shine, and of Shade. 
Thro' an uncertain Medium now we look,
 And find That, Falshood, 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 obtains,
 From outward Objects and from Sense he gains;
 He like a wretched Slave, must plod and sweat,
 By Day must toil, by Night that Toil repeat;
 And yet at last what little Fruit he gains? 
A Beggar's 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,
 Must 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 controul,
 Or from the Body disengage 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 or Conceit still hurries us away? 
Thus his new Notions Sherlock would instill,
 And clear the greatest Mysteries at will. 
But 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 Arguments 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 other's 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 Morrow no Success. 
Ev'n Garth and Maurus sometimes shall prevail,
 When Gibson, learned Hannes, 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 design'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 ripen'd Age confirms us to believe;
 The careful Nurse, and Priest is all we need
 To learn Opinions and our Country'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 Vertue made? 
When Education more than Truth prevails,
 And nought is Current but what Custom seals;
 Thus from the time we first begin 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-Interest be but in the Case,
 Our unexamin'd Principles may pass. 
Good Heavens! that Man should thus himself deceive,
 To learn on Credit, and on Trust believe;
 Better the Mind no Notions had retain'd,
 But still a fair unwritten Blank remain'd;
 For now, who Truth from Falshood would discern,
 Must first disrobe 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 e'er 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 Charibdis 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'rend Sage with vast Esteem we prize,
 He liv'd long since, and must be wond'rous Wise;
 Thus are we Debtors to the famous Dead,
 For all those Errors which their Fancies bred;
 Errors indeed! for real Knowledge staid
 With those first times, nor farther 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. 

Suppose those many dreadful Dangers past,
 Will Knowledge dawn, and bless the Mind at last? 
Ah! no, 'tis now inviron'd from our Eyes,
 Hides all its Charms, and undiscover'd lies. 
Truth like a single Point escapes the Sight,
 And claims Intention 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 Falshood 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 e'er we can explore
 The glittering Gem, our fleeting Life is o'er.