Tell us in manner high

The flattering things that soothe;

But hush the outer cry

And crush the inner truth.

What matters all the din

Of truth—discordant cries?

We quaff the joyous wine

And lap ourselves in lies.

The lordly anthem peals

The while the people rot;

The gilded church reveals

The penury of their lot.

No matter—let them starve!

The gorgeous mass atones;

These glorious arches serve

To sepulchre their bones.

Come, hymn the dying wretch

With pÆans on the harps;

Nard and vermilion fetch

To paint and scent the corpse.

II

Into the hand of man,

When by the gods first form’d,

They gave this talisman,

The dull stone Reason, arm’d

With which to brave the skies

And make the earth his throne.

But to his infant eyes

A brighter treasure shone—

The tinsel Fancy, flame

Illusive; and alas,

He flung away the gem

And took the glittering glass.

III

Vain, vain the visions—vain,

Dreams that intoxicate

In the dark day when men

Come face to face with fate.

Not out of knowledge grown

The empty dogmas rise,

But gilded bubbles blown

From the foul froth of lies.

Cease! Let the lies be hurl’d

Back to the darkling past.

Truth, only, saves the world,

And Science rules the vast.