Saints in design, in execution men,
Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen. 
   Methinks I see, and sicken at the sight,
Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight;
Spirits who prompted every damning page,
With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage: 
Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around,
And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground! 
They pray, they fight, they murder, and they weep,-
Wolves in their vengeance, in their manners sheep;
Too well they act the prophet’s fatal part,
Denouncing evil with a zealous heart;
And each, like Jonah, is displeased if God
Repent his anger, or withhold his rod. 
   But here the dormant fury rests unsought,
And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought;
Here all the rage of controversy ends,
And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends: 
An Athanasian here, in deep repose,
Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes;
Socinians here with Calvinists abide,
And thin partitions angry chiefs divide;
Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet,
And Bellarmine has rest at Luther’s feet. 
Great authors, for the church’s glory fired,
Are for the church’s peace to rest retired;
And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race,
Lie “Crumbs of Comfort for the Babes of Grace.” 
   Against her foes Religion well defends
Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends: 
If learn’d, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads,
And their hearts’ weakness, who have soundest heads. 
But most she fears the controversial pen,
The holy strife of disputatious men;
Who the blest Gospel’s peaceful page explore,
Only to fight against its precepts more. 
   Near to these seats behold yon slender frames,
All closely fill’d and mark’d with modern names;
Where no fair science ever shows her face,
Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace;
There sceptics rest, a still-increasing throng,
And stretch their widening wings ten thousand strong;
Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain;
Some skirmish lightly, fly, and fight again;
Coldly profane, and impiously gay,
Their end the same, though various in their way. 
   When first Religion came to bless the land,
Her friends were then a firm believing band;
To doubt was then to plunge in guilt extreme,
And all was gospel that a monk could dream;
Insulted Reason fled the grov’lling soul,
For Fear to guide, and visions to control: 
But now, when Reason has assumed her throne,
She, in her turn, demands to reign alone;
Rejecting all that lies beyond her view,
And, being judge, will be a witness too: 
Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind,
To seek for truth, without a power to find: 
Ah! when will both in friendly beams unite,
And pour on erring man resistless light? 
   Next to the seats, well stored with works divine,
An ample space, philosophy! is thine;