Fanaticism, The False Fire Of An Overheated

And Hast Thou Sworn On Every Slight Pretence, Till Perjuries Are Common As Bad Pence, While Thousands, Careless Of The Damning Sin, Kiss The Book's Outside, Who Ne'er Look'd Within?

When Scandal Has New-minted An Old Lie, Or Tax'd Invention For A Fresh Supply, 'tis Call'd A Satire, And The World Appears Gathering Around It With Erected Ears; A Thousand Names Are Toss'd Into The Crowd, Some Whisper'd Softly, And Some Twang'd Aloud, Just As The Sapience Of An Author's Brain, Suggests It Safe Or Dangerous To Be Plain.

Heaven Speed The Canvas, Gallantly Unfurl'd, To Furnish And Accommodate A World, To Give The Pole The Produce Of The Sun, And Knit The Unsocial Climates Into One.

Tis Pleasant, Through The Loopholes Of Retreat, To Peep At Such A World; To See The Stir Of The Great Babel, And Not Feel The Crowd.

I Seem Forsaken And Alone, / I Hear The Lion Roar; / And Every Door Is Shut But One, / And That Is Mercy's Door.