Ode to Superstition-Samuel Rogers

 

Samuel Rogers, picture taken from Wikipedia

ODE TO SUPERSTITION

Hence, to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence!

Thy chain of adamant can bind

That little world, the human mind,

Any sink its noblest powers to impotence.

Wake the lion's loudest roar,

Clot his shaggy mane with gore,

With flashing fury bid his eye-balls shine;

Meek is his savage, sullen soul to thine!

Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steeled the breast,

Whence, thro' her April-shower, soft Pity smiled,

Has closed the heart each godlike virtue blessed,

To all the silent pleadings of his child,

At thy command he plants the dagger deep,

At thy command exults, tho' Nature bids him weep!

When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth,

Thou dartest thy huge head from high,

Night waved her banners o'er the sky,

And, brooding, gave her shapeless shadows birth.

Rocking on the billowy air,

Ha! what withering phantoms glare!

As blows the blast with many a sudden swell,

At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell!

The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb, 

Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by. 

In every grove is felt a heavier gloom,

That veils its genius from the vulgar eye;

The spirit of the water rides the storm,

And, thro' the mist, reveals the terrors of his form...

Samuel Rogers