SUPERSTITION.
Then Paul stood in the midst of Mars’ hill, and said, Ye men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious.—Acts, xvii. 22.
’Tis Superstition! that
Dread bolt that seems to him and thee the home
Of torture, is the earth, the beauteous earth,
Created by thy God, a perfect thing,
All loveliness, and life, and light, to be
The dwelling-place of thee and thine—but this,
This ignorant, besotted fool, sees but
In that beneficent gift, where all is formed
For happiness, a scene of punishment
And death; turns every joy to bitterness,
Reproaches God with never-ending fears,
And, like a thankless wretch, dashes aside
The cup of happiness the Almighty hand
Gives to his lips, when he might know his praise,
And gratitude can but be shown by free
And innocent enjoyment; not content
That his own soul must suffer misery,
He would crush down his fellow-beings with
The weight of his own gloom. His voice shall fill
The earth with one loud cry; at his command,
The homes of thousands shall be desolate;
At his command, fathers shall give their sons
To be devoured by lingering fire, or stretched
Upon a wheel, whose racking torture tears
The victim limb-meal, and then lift their hands,
Their impious hands, to heaven, and call the deed
Of blasphemy a holy act. Weak fools!
To think it pleaseth Him who made them in
His image—that that image should be torn,
Defaced, and blotted.
Constantia Louisa Riddell.
But hence, far hence be ostentatious pomp,
And superstition’s tinsel.
Samuel Hayes.
Fell Superstition leads
Her horrid train, engendered in the womb
Of her own mad imaginings.
A. Alexander.