244 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
If from rude hordes to Christian lands I look, The bigot, though more polished, is the same ;
A hundred clamorous sects, with cross and book, Shout each a different doctrine, but one name.
Each bids me God in his own idol see.
Or in his demon seek my Deity.
��If the dark page of history I explore.
What horrid tale it tells ! With what fierce speed, Strife, Treachery, Hatred haste from shore to shore,
Life in the doctrine, death in every deed ! Such mischiefs in each moment brought to birth, The wonder is, man still should cumber earth.
Here, chained 'midst flaming fagots to the stake, The mangled martyr sinks in smothering fires ;
There, locked in dungeons for Christ's mercy's sake. With shrieks and groans some tortured wretch expires,
Doomed with but this consoling thought to sink,
That 'midst a senseless race he dared to think.
Here Sorcery and Witchcraft spread their toils ;
There Heresy would blast the good man's name ; While 'neath religion's cloak, grown fat on spoils.
The priestly robber pilfers without shame. And, with earth's potentates joined hand in hand. Drives truth and virtue out from every land.
Here cunning Avarice feigns to balance power. And steals from either side to make all even ;
There Craft monopolizes earthly dower.
And pays the plundered with a pass to heaven.
And, on the spoils of others bloated grown.
Deeds lands in realms it ne'er shall see nor own.
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