Atheists are few:  most nymphs a Godhead own;
  And nothing but his attributes dethrone. 
  From atheists far, they steadfastly believe
  God is, and is almighty—­to forgive,
  His other excellence they’ll not dispute;
  But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute. 
  Shall pleasures of a short duration chain
  A lady’s soul in everlasting pain? 
  Will the great Author us poor worms destroy,
  For now and then a sip of transient joy? 
  No; he’s forever in a smiling mood;
  He’s like themselves; or how could he be good? 
  And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose. 
  Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose,
  The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead,
  A deity that’s perfectly well bred.

  ’Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men;
  Nor thought he more than thought great Origen. 
  Though once upon a time he misbehaved,
  Poor Satan! doubtless, he’ll at length be saved. 
  Let priests do something for their one in ten;
  It is their trade; so far they’re honest men. 
  Let them cant on, since they have got the knack,
  And dress their notions, like themselves, in black;
  Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown,
  From joys of this, to keep them all their own. 
  Of earth’s fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee;
  But then they leave our untithed virtue free. 
  Virtue’s a pretty thing to make a show: 
  Did ever mortal write like Rochefoucauld? 
  Thus pleads the Devil’s fair apologist,
  And, pleading, safely enters on his list.

  NIGHT-THOUGHTS

  [MAN’S MARVELLOUS NATURE]

  How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
  How complicate, how wonderful is man! 
  How passing wonder He who made him such,
  Who centred in our make such strange extremes! 
  From different natures marvellously mixed,
  Connection exquisite of distant worlds! 
  Distinguished link in being’s endless chain! 
  Midway from nothing to the Deity! 
  A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed! 
  Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine! 
  Dim miniature of greatness absolute! 
  An heir of glory!  A frail child of dust! 
  Helpless immortal! insect infinite! 
  A worm!  A god!—­I tremble at myself,
  And in myself am lost.  At home a stranger,
  Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast
  And wondering at her own.  How reason reels! 
  O what a miracle to man is man,
  Triumphantly distressed; what joy! what dread! 
  Alternately transported and alarmed! 
  What can preserve my life? or what destroy? 
  An angel’s arm can’t snatch me from the grave;
  Legions of angels can’t confine me there.

  [SATIETY IN THIS WORLD]