SUPERSTITION.
O Superstition, could the world behold Thy wrinkled visage,—worshipped as thou art, Not all the pomp of earth, nor all its gold Could purchase for thee one devoted heart; The sons of science, eloquently bold, Have felt the strokes of thy unsparing dart, And knaves despotic, kneeling at thy shrines, Have made thy slaves the tools of their designs.
To science turn; she cultivates the rough And barren regions of the savage mind, Her lore is not the visionary stuff Of gloomy monks; blind leaders of the blind. Her ways are mild and beautiful enough To melt the rigour of a heart unkind, Her truths are diamonds, such as will endure Throughout all ages, palpable and sure.
VIGER SQUARE.[8]
Here in this quiet garden shade, Whose blossoms spread their bloom before me, The world’s gay cheats,—Life’s masquerade, Like evil ghosts from memory fade, And calm and holy thoughts come o’er me.
Ambrosial haunt; the orient light Falls golden on thy soft seclusion; And like the lone and shadowy night, Grim care, abashed, has taken flight, And joys gleam forth in rich profusion.
These odorous flowers that feast the bee, Those mimic fountains sunward leaping, And yon red-berried rowan tree, That brings my childhood back to me, With hallowed scenes of Memory’s keeping.
All these, and more, with beauty clad, Invite the city’s weary mortals— The pale-faced maid, the widow sad, The sinking merchant, growing mad, To muse within these peaceful portals.