O Superstition, could the world behold
Thy wrinkled visage,—worshipped as thou art,
Not all the pomp of earth, nor all its gold
Could purchase for thee one devoted heart;
The sons of science, eloquently bold,
Have felt the strokes of thy unsparing dart,
And knaves despotic, kneeling at thy shrines,
Have made thy slaves the tools of their designs.
To science turn; she cultivates the rough
And barren regions of the savage mind,
Her lore is not the visionary stuff
Of gloomy monks; blind leaders of the blind.
Her ways are mild and beautiful enough
To melt the rigour of a heart unkind,
Her truths are diamonds, such as will endure
Throughout all ages, palpable and sure.