<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416962" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Prejudice</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">IN yonder red-brick mansion, tight and square,<br>Just at the town's commencement, lives the mayor.<br>Some yards of shining gravel, fenced with box,<br>Lead to the painted portal--where one knocks :<br>There, in the left-hand parlour, all in state,<br>Sit he and she, on either side the grate.<br>But though their goods and chattels, sound and new,<br>Bespeak the owners very well to do, <br>His worship's wig and morning suit betray<br>Slight indications of an humbler day</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That long, low shop, where still the name appears,<br>Some doors below, they kept for forty years :<br>And there, with various fortunes, smooth and rough,<br>They sold tobacco, coffee, tea, and snuff.<br>There labelled drawers display their spicy row--<br>Clove, mace, and nutmeg : from the ceiling low<br>Dangle long twelves and eights , and slender rush,<br>Mix'd with the varied forms of genus brush ;<br>Cask, firkin, bag, and barrel, crowd the floor,<br>And piles of country cheeses guard the door.<br>The frugal dames came in from far and near,<br>To buy their ounces and their quarterns here.<br>Hard was the toil, the profits slow to count,<br>And yet the mole-hill was at last a mount.<br>Those petty gains were hoarded day by day,<br>With little cost, for not a child had they ;<br>Till, long proceeding on the saving plan,<br>He found himself a warm, fore-handed man :<br>And being now arrived at life's decline,<br>Both he and she, they formed the bold design,<br>(Although it touched their prudence to the quick)<br>To turn their savings into stone and brick.<br>How many an ounce of tea and ounce of snuff,<br>There must have been consumed to make enough !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At length, with paint and paper, bright and gay,<br>The box was finished, and they went away.<br>But when their faces were no longer seen<br>Amongst the canisters of black and green ,<br>--Those well-known faces, all the country round--<br>'Twas said that had they levelled to the ground<br>The two old walnut trees before the door,<br>The customers would not have missed them more.<br>Now, like a pair of parrots in a cage,<br>They live, and civic honours crown their age :<br>Thrice, since the Whitsuntide they settled there,<br>Seven years ago, has he been chosen mayor ;<br>And now you'd scarcely know they were the same ;<br>Conscious he struts, of power, and wealth, and fame ;<br>Proud in official dignity, the dame :<br>And extra stateliness of dress and mien,<br>During the mayoralty, is plainly seen ;<br>With nicer care bestowed to puff and pin<br>The august lappet that contains her chin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such is her life ; and, like the wise and great,<br>The mind has journeyed hand in hand with fate :<br>Her thoughts, unused to take a longer flight<br>Than from the left-hand counter to the right,<br>With little change, are vacillating still,<br>Between his worship's glory, and the till.<br>The few ideas moving, slow and dull,<br>Across the sandy desert of her skull,<br>Still the same course must follow, to and fro,<br>As first they traversed three-score years ago ;<br>From whence, not all the world could turn them back,<br>Or lead them out upon another track.<br>What once was right or wrong, or high or low<br>In her opinion, always must be so :--<br>You might, perhaps, with reasons new and pat,<br>Have made Columbus think the world was flat ;<br>There might be times of energy worn out,<br>When his own theory would Sir Isaac doubt ;<br>But not the powers of argument combined,<br>Could make this dear good woman change her mind,<br>Or give her intellect the slightest clue<br>To that vast world of things she never knew.<br>Were but her brain dissected, it would show<br>Her stiff opinions fastened in a row,<br>Ranged duly, side by side, without a gap,<br>Much like the plaiting on her Sunday cap.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is not worth our while, but if it were,<br>We all could undertake to laugh at her ;<br>Since vulgar prejudice, the lowest kind,<br>Of course, has full possession of her mind ;<br>Here, therefore, let us leave her, and inquire<br>Wherein it differs as it rises higher.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">--As for the few who claim distinction here,<br>The little gentry of our narrow sphere,<br>Who occupy a safe enclosure, made<br>Completely inaccessible to trade,<br>Where, 'tis a trespass on forbidden ground,<br>If any foot plebeian pass the bound ;--<br>Wide as the distance that we choose to make<br>For pride, precedence, and for custom's sake,<br>Yet philosophic eyes (though passing fine)<br>Could scarcely ascertain the boundary line ;<br>So that, if any should be found at all,<br>The difference must be infinitely small.<br>The powdered matron, who for many a year<br>Has held her mimic routs and parties here,<br>(Exchanging just the counter, scales, and till<br>For cups of coffee, scandal, and quadrille)<br>Could boast nor range of thought, nor views of life,<br>Much more extended than our grocer's wife.<br>Although her notions may be better drest,<br>They are but vulgar notions at the best,--<br>Mere petrifactions, formed as time runs by,<br>Hard and unmalleable, and dull and dry,<br>Ne'er to the test of truth and reason brought,<br>--Opinions made by habit, not by thought.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then let inquiry rise, with sudden flight,<br>To reason's utmost intellectual height ;<br>Where native powers, with culture high combined,<br>Present the choicest specimen of mind.<br>--Those minds that stand from all mankind aloof,<br>To smile at folly, or dispense reproof ;<br>Enlarged, excursive, reason soars away,<br>And breaks the shackles that confine its sway :<br>Their keen, dissecting, penetrating view,<br>Searches poor human nature through and through ;<br>But while they notice all the forms absurd,<br>That prejudice assumes among the herd,<br>And every nicer variation see,<br>Theirs lies in thinking that themselves are free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a science reason cannot teach ;<br>It lies beyond the depth her line can reach ;<br>It is but taught by Heaven's imparted grace,<br>The feet of Jesus is the only place ;<br>And they who mental riches largely share,<br>But seldom stoop to seek their wisdom there.<br>'Not many mighty' in His train appear ;<br>The simple poor adorn it best ;--and here,<br>While prejudice the mental sight impairs<br>Of vulgar minds,--'tis like a beam in theirs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Religion, as in common course professed,<br>Is first a question with them, then a jest :<br>Quick to discern the ludicrous and base,<br>With which blind votaries have deformed her face,<br>Errors, abuses, creeds imposed by man,<br>Are undistinguished from the Scripture plan.<br>Rome's proud ambition, tyranny, and fraud,<br>The Christian standard's bloody deeds abroad,<br>Priestcraft, the same in every age and clime,<br>From earliest record to the present time,<br>Contending parties' never-dying strife,<br>Each calling vengeance on the other's life,<br>The wretched hypocrite,--the wild extreme<br>Of blind fanatics,--the enthusiast's dream,<br>The lives of those who bear the Christian name,--<br>Of this, of all, religion bears the blame ;<br>Though these are men who most reject its sway,<br>And know as little what it means as they.<br>There's not a wolf within the church's fold,<br>But what the Bible has itself foretold ;<br>Yet these triumphantly are brought to view,<br>To prove that word of prophecy untrue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A cold acknowledgment of one Supreme,<br>Avoids, they argue, every wide extreme ;<br>And this, if made by Christian, Turk, or Jew,<br>Is all the same in His impartial view.<br>But all beyond their rational degree<br>Of distant homage to the Deity,--<br>A firm attachment to the truth revealed ,<br>(Truth which with blood the Lord of glory sealed)<br>Zeal to obey, as well as to adore,--<br>Is vulgar prejudice, and nothing more.<br>Thus, christian service, spiritual and free,<br>They class (with pleased and proud complacency)<br>With rights impure that pagan India boasts,<br>The blood-dyed Koran, and the idol hosts ;<br>The cross, perhaps, held up with least respect,<br>The hated symbol of the hated sect :<br>That seal which marks it Heaven's appointed way,<br>They caring nor to read, nor to obey,<br>--That whoso names that name, must first depart<br>From all iniquity of life and heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or, should the Christian code from all the rest<br>Be singled out, and owned to be the best,<br>The same keen shafts of ridicule are bent<br>Against its spirit, and its true intent.<br>Of all that gives it energy bereft,<br>There are but some mere scraps of ethics left,<br>Scarce more enlightened than were heard to flow<br>From Socrates and Plato long ago :<br>As though, had Scripture never solved a doubt,<br>We might have managed vastly well without.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Religion's nature, and its worth, are known<br>To those by whom it is possessed alone.<br>The Christian's aims and motives, simple, grand,<br>The wisest worldlings cannot understand :<br>Those views which worldly principles condemn,<br>Are so incomprehensible to them,<br>That they, unanimous in self defence,<br>Pronounce them mere delusion or pretence ;<br>And prejudice (a favourite word) explains<br>All that still unaccounted for remains.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mid the strong course of passion's wonted sway,<br>What makes the wicked man forsake his way ?<br>Conquers the habits years had rooted in,<br>All fear subduing, but the fear of sin ?<br>And him who toiled for earthly bliss, arise,<br>Leave all, and lay up treasure in the skies ?<br>These are phenomena that, strange to say,<br>Religion is presenting every day ;<br>Changes, which they who witness dare not doubt,<br>Though little heard of by the world without.<br>The man now goes rejoicing on his way,<br>With inward peace, and cheerful, though not gay ;<br>Unseen the motives that his path define ;<br>His life is hidden, though his graces shine.<br>He walks through life's distracting changes now,<br>With even pace, and with an even brow ;<br>Hears the vain world's tumultuous hue and cry,<br>Just turns his head, and passes calmly by ;<br>Yet takes his cheerful share when duty draws,<br>And still is foremost found in mercy's cause.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What works this strange philosophy in him,<br>Is it misanthropy, or merely whim ?<br>No ; 'tis the glowing, present sense he feels<br>Of things invisible, which faith reveals.<br>And should the man thus walking with his God,<br>Be one unpolished as the valley's clod,<br>Should all his science but amount to this,<br>--To loathe iniquity, and long for bliss ?<br>This is not prejudice--or if it be,<br>'Twere well if all were prejudiced as he !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But things to come--the vast unfathomed state,<br>To which death opens instantly the gate,--<br>Although the thought of that expected change,<br>Affords the finest intellectual range,<br>Although that change must soon become our lot,<br>Whether the subject suit our taste or not,<br>Although objectors cannot well reply,<br>That 'tis a vulgar prejudice to die,--<br>The subject seems (howe'er it came to pass)<br>Avoided much by this enlightened class.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All other themes, whose tendencies appear<br>To add to our accommodation here,<br>Every contrivance of contriving men<br>To make a pleasant three-score years and ten,<br>--Inventions and improvements, whether made<br>In science, commerce, agriculture, trade,<br>The arts, belles lettres , politics, finance,<br>Their value is acknowledged at a glance ;<br>And these are studied, patronised, and taught,<br>With active diligence,--and so they ought.<br>But since a moment may--some moment must <br>Consign our interest in them all to dust,<br>Has not the business of the world to come,<br>Mid all our thoughts, at least a claim to some ?<br>But these are things mysterious and obscure,<br>Not tangible, and rational, and sure ;<br>'Tis such a vague untenable expanse :--<br>In short, they mean to wait, and take their chance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Could you but show by demonstration clear,<br>How forms and things invisible appear ;<br>Produce your apparatus, bright and clean,<br>And try experiments on things unseen ;<br>Rare specimens, in due assortment bring,<br>Of seraph's eyes, and slips of angel's wing,<br>Or metaphysic air-pumps work, to show<br>A disembodied soul in vacuo ; <br>Then 'twere a study worthy of alliance<br>With any other branch of modern science.<br>But mere assertion of a future state,<br>By unknown writers, at a distant date,<br>If this be all its advocates advance,<br>It is but superstition and romance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus, mental pride, unsubject to control ;<br>To God a secret enmity of soul ;<br>That stubbornness which scorns to yield assent<br>To aught unfounded on experiment ;<br>A wretched clinging to the present state,<br>That loathes to dwell on things beyond its date ;<br>That dread of death which ne'er the thought pursues,<br>And which the Christian's hope alone subdues,--<br>Combine a veil of prejudice to place<br>Between dark reason and the light of grace ;<br>--A prejudice as hopeless as can bind<br>The meanest, most illiterate of mankind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Would that the films of error were allowed<br>But by the vulgar worldling, or the proud !<br>But this distemper of the moral eye<br>Never affects it more inveterately,<br>Than when the false of prejudice's view<br>Is intermingled with a little true .<br>And hence, the conscientious and sincere,<br>Who know essential truth, and hold it dear,<br>If education (as she doubtless can)<br>Have formed their souls upon the narrow plan,<br>Permit no notion from its nook to stir ;<br>Most obstinately certain--where they err.<br>Thus are opinions, as received in youth,<br>Wedged down immovably with slips of truth ;<br>Assured of part, they deem the whole is right ;<br>And what astonishment it would excite,<br>Should any have the boldness to allege,<br>That all is rubbish but the golden wedge !<br>--'Tis pity, for the sceptic world without<br>Produce the error to confirm their doubt,<br>Therefore refuse the sterling to behold ;<br>And thus the rubbish tarnishes the gold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a tender, captivating glow<br>Which certain views on certain objects throw :<br>Taste, and poetic feeling, range alone<br>A fairy world exclusively their own ;<br>And delicacies gather that arise,<br>Where'er they turn, unseen by vulgar eyes.<br>Their dainty aliment serenely floats<br>On every breeze--they live like gnats on motes.<br>There they might safely, innocently stray ;<br>But when they come and stand in Reason's way,<br>They blind her views, demean her princely air,<br>And do more mischief than their smiles repair.<br>Why she their interference should restrain,<br>A simple instance shall at once explain.<br>When Paul the walks of beauteous Athens trod,<br>To point its children to their 'unknown God,'<br>If some refined Athenian, passing by,<br>Heard that new doctrine, how would he reply ?<br>Regarding first, with polished, scornful smile,<br>The stranger's figure and unclassic style,<br>Perceiving then the argument was bent<br>Against the gods of his establishment,<br>He need but cast his tutored eye around,<br>And in that glance he has an answer found :<br>--Altars and theatres, and sacred groves,<br>Temples and deities where'er it roves,<br>Each long perspective that the eye pervades,<br>Peopled with heroes, thickening as it fades;<br>Those awful forms that hold their silent sway,<br>Matchless in grace, while ages roll away;<br>There, softly blending with the evening shade,<br>Less light and less, the airy colonnade ;<br>Here, in magnificence of Attic grace,<br>Minerva's Temple, rising from its base ;<br>Its spotless marble forming to the eye<br>A ghostly outline on the deep-blue sky :--<br>'Enough--the doctrine that would undermine<br>These forms of beauty cannot be divine.'<br>Thus taste would, doubtless, intercept his view<br>Of that 'strange thing,' which after all--was true.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Luther's sun arose, to chase away<br>The 'dim religious light' of Romish day,<br>Opposing, only, to the mellow glare<br>Of gold and gems that deck the papal chair,<br>And each imposing pageant of the church,<br>Good sense, plain argument, and sound research ;--<br>Here taste, again, would prove a dangerous guide,<br>And raise a prejudice on error's side.<br>--Behold the slow procession move along !<br>The Pontiff's blessing on the prostrate throng ;<br>The solemn service, and the anthem loud,<br>The altar's radiance on the kneeling crowd :--<br>Or seek, at summons of the convent bell,<br>Deep, sacred shades, where fair recluses dwell ;<br>See the long train of white-robed sisters come,<br>Appearing now--now lost amid the gloom,<br>Chanting shrill vespers in the twilight dim,<br>The plaintive music of the Virgin's hymn :--<br>Then would not taste and fancy join the cry<br>Against the rude, barbarian heresy,<br>That sought those sacred walls to overthrow,<br>And rend the veil from that seducing show ?<br>And yet, according to our present light,<br>That barbarous, tasteless heretic--was right.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It might not be convenient had we gone<br>To carry this reflection further on.<br>--But whether, mid the faint and foggy ray,<br>Of ages past, or at the present day,<br>Truth's native lustre ever must decline<br>When human art attempts to make it shine :<br>--Truth is too strong to need the proffered hand<br>Of human feebleness to make it stand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Inveterate prejudice, infirm and blind,<br>May take possession of an honest mind :<br>Though weakly yielding to its stubborn sway,<br>'Tis not determined to be led astray.<br>But is there not a sin that must not claim,<br>Though near of kindred, such a gentle name ?<br>A daring sin, that comes with open face,<br>To rear its standard in the holy place ?<br>E'en from that day, when some would fain condemn<br>The works of those who followed not with them,<br>And for that early spark of party rage<br>Received reproof designed for every age,<br>Down to the present noisy moment, when<br>'Tis spirting from the tip of many a pen,--<br>E'en from that day to this, with ceaseless reign,<br>Has party spirit been the church's bane.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then, let the verse trace clearly as it can,<br>The finer features of the party man.<br>By birth, connexion, interest, pride, or taste,<br>On one or other side we find him placed ;<br>No matter which, nor is there need to say,<br>For there he is--and there he means to stay.<br>That point decided, 'tis his second care<br>To find a reason for his being there ;<br>Some reason that may make a brave defence<br>Against assaults from truth and common sense ;<br>--Supposing for the present, that his ground<br>Is not exactly tenable all round.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He, not contented like the vulgar herd<br>To take his creed on other people's word,<br>And urged amain, by intellectual pride,<br>To prove he is not on the weaker side,<br>His choisest stores of wit and fancy draws,<br>To prop and beautify the needy cause :<br>And well do wit and fancy suit their end,<br>Who seek not to examine , but defend. <br>His is no simple scrupulous mistake,<br>Like the weak brother, wrong for conscience' sake ;<br>But prejudice, in him, has had to bind<br>A knowing, subtle, and enlightened mind.<br>Hence, at each step, he has to bear along<br>The secret consciousness of something wrong ;<br>But that suspicion, unavowed of course,<br>Serves but to nerve his arm with triple force ;<br>Provokes his zeal to lend its utmost aid,<br>And gives the edge of keenness to his blade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His mind is formed, as though 'twere nature's plan<br>To cut him out to be a party man,<br>And send him down, in pity, to his post,<br>As foremost champion of the weaker host :<br>Not of that grander, philosophic tone,<br>That lets all party littleness alone ;<br>But keen, sagacious, armed for quick reply,<br>And, though not visible to every eye,<br>Nor from his courteous manner to be guessed--<br>A dash of gall and wormwood in his breast.<br>Yet, every harsher quality is graced<br>With wit and learning, eloquence and taste ;<br>Yes--and as charity delights to say,<br>Much self deceived, and hoping that he may,<br>While gratifying self, and party spleen,<br>Squeeze in some love to God and man between.<br>A show of candour too, at times, is lent,<br>To add its lustre to his argument :<br>To those who advocate the favorite notion,<br>It flows as wide as the Atlantic Ocean ;<br>But towards the heretic who turns it over,<br>About as narrow as the straits of Dover.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It seems too much for either side to boast<br>The right in every contest, if in most :<br>Yet our true partizan from none withdraws,<br>But lends his talents out to every cause.<br>Each new encounter prompt to undertake,<br>Asking no questions first for conscience' sake :<br>'Tis not for him the right and wrong to sift,<br>Enough to know his party wants a lift ;<br>And, though so hazardous none other can,<br>He boldly takes the field with--'I'm your man !'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And thus he dares the controversial fray ;<br>Though careful, first of all, to clear away<br>A little rubbish, till he finds a stone<br>Just broad enough to set his foot upon.<br>On that one stone he loudly stamps, to show<br>How firm a standing-place it is, although<br>Should he advance a step, or step retire,<br>He plunges all at once knee-deep in mire.<br>If thence beat off by some opposing band,<br>He finds some neighbouring jutment where to stand ;<br>There followed, seeks the old support amain,<br>Driv'n off anew--anew slips back again.<br>draft board may exemplify the thing ;<br>When chased from post to post, one hapless king,<br>At length, betakes him to--by marches short,<br>The double corner as his last resort ;<br>Where long, from square to square he bravely courses,<br>And stands his ground though robbed of all his forces.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meantime, he trusts the checks his arms receive<br>But few will hear of--fewer still believe ;<br>Hopes the dry record will be little sought ;<br>And feels a Jesuit-pleasure at the thought.<br>It seems the choicest secret of his art,<br>To ward invasion from the weaker part ;<br>To veil all blemishes, and make the most<br>Of what he has, or thinks he has, to boast.<br>Of full exposure more than all afraid,<br>He trusts to neat manoeuvres to evade<br>That thorough search, in every hole and nook,<br>Which unencumbered truth alone can brook ;<br>And labours hard, by hiding all the traces,<br>To intimate that there are no such places.<br>His fairest movements seem to wear disguise ;<br>His plans are rather politic than wise ;<br>Not to elicit truth, but o'er the dross<br>To spread a plausible and specious gloss,<br>But he, who finds it needful, on his part,<br>To ply the mean artillery of art,<br>And sharpen every arrow that he draws,<br>May well suspect the soundness of his cause.<br>Suspect he may,--but vain that lucid doubt,<br>Devoid of nobleness to search it out.<br>--Between the man on controversial ground,<br>Panting for truth wherever it be found,<br>And him who does but seek it on one side,<br>There lies a gulf immeasurably wide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Two brother sportsmen, on a blithsome morn,<br>Obey the summons of the inspiring horn :<br>One, predetermined to pursue the chase<br>Within the limits of a certain space ;<br>The other, glowing with the bold intent,<br>Lead where it may, to follow up the scent.<br>--They start the hare--and after many a bound<br>Doubling and winding on file aforesaid ground,<br>She leaps the fence and gains the neighbouring mead ;<br>At which our doughty sportsman checks his steed ;<br>Rather than follow boldly on to that,<br>He stays behind the hedge--and starts a cat ;<br>Pursues poor puss with vast advantage thence,<br>And has brave sport within his blessed fence.<br>--Then having clipt and trimmed her, here and there,<br>Assures the world that he has caught the hare ;<br>And should his sporting friends confirm the lie,<br>Ere there is time to ask the reason why,<br>A hare--though common sense should stand appalled--<br>She was, is now, and ever shall be called.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meantime, the brother sportsman does not fail<br>To chase his victim over hill and dale ;<br>The five-barred gate, tall rampart, hedge and ditch,<br>Alike to him--he leaps, and cares not which<br>At length he sees,--nor sees without dismay,<br>The pack strike off an unexpected way ;<br>The path they take, by tact unerring shown,<br>Must cross a fine enclosure of his own ;<br>The fair plantation, on his favorite grounds,<br>Is rudely torn and trampled by the hounds :<br>Safe from attack the sheltered spot appeared ;<br>His fathers raised it, and himself revered :<br>Though startled, he disdains to call them back,<br>But leaps, and follows the sagacious pack ;<br>Tramples the ground himself, with noble pride,<br>And hears the death-cry on the other side ;<br>Secures his prey--content to bear the shame,<br>If such it be,--for he has got the game. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Interest its secret bias may impart,<br>When least suspected, to an upright heart :<br>But when a creed and worldly views unite,<br>Where interest is the only rule of right ;<br>Where loaves and fishes--all our goodly show<br>Depend on people's thinking so and so ;<br>What pompous, loud, declamatory wrath,<br>The mere expression of a doubt calls forth !<br>The weight of argument is balanced here,<br>Against so many thousand pounds a year ;<br>--What dreadful, dangerous heresy is taught !<br>It must be silenced--will not bear a thought !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is party spirit, therefore, only found<br>In one enclosure of disputed ground ?<br>No ; while Nathaniels stand on either side<br>The boundary lines that differing sects divide,<br>Unchristian tempers every form may take,<br>And truth itself be loved for party's sake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The man whom conscience, less than mental pride,<br>Early enlisted on the opposing side,<br>Proves that the flames of an unhallowed fire,<br>Not love to God and man, his zeal inspire.<br>--Pleased, proud to differ, eloquent to teach<br>The lesser doctrines that enlarge the breach,<br>In bold defiance of the christian rule,<br>Says to his brother, 'raca,' and 'thou fool ;'<br>Or vainly hopes to violate its laws,<br>Beneath the sanction of a righteous cause.<br>Rejoiced, not grieved in spirit, to behold<br>Abuses thicken in the neighbouring fold ;<br>And doubting, grudging, backward to concede<br>That any sheep within that pasture feed.<br>Intent his controversial shafts to draw,<br>Omits the weightier matters of the law ;<br>Wont more on points of party strife to dwell,<br>Than emulous to save a soul from hell.<br>Yet,--if his soul be free from wilful guile,<br>Believes he does God service all the while.<br>But oh ! the darkest candidate for bliss,<br>Who seeking that, spares not a thought for this,<br>Though much encumbered should his notions be,<br>Is safer, happier, nearer Heaven than he.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come, let us rise from party's noisy sphere,<br>To trace an honest mind in its career ;<br>And see how far true greatness spreads its flight<br>Above the cleverness of party spite.<br>He, from the regions of a calmer day,<br>Hears the faint clamour of the distant fray :<br>Hears but to pity--while in tranquil mood<br>He holds his course in happy solitude.<br>Truth his sole object, this, with simple aim,<br>He follows, caring little for the name ;<br>Not with the poor intent to make her stand<br>And wave his party's ensign in her hand,<br>Mocking his neighbour's pitiful mistake ;<br>But for her own invaluable sake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That is the truly philosophic mind,<br>Which no inferior influence can bind ;<br>Which all endeavours to confine were vain,<br>Though the earth's orbit were its length of chain.<br>--But not that boldness which delights to break<br>From what our fathers taught, for license' sake,<br>Through all dry places wandering, still in quest,<br>Like lawless fiends, of some unhallowed rest ;--<br>The love of truth is genuine, when combined<br>With unaffected humbleness of mind.<br>He values most, who feels with sense acute<br>His own deep interest in the grand pursuit ;<br>Who heaven-ward spreads his undiverted wing,<br>Godly simplicity the moving spring.<br>No meaner power can regulate his flight,<br>Too much is staked upon his going right.<br>Dry, heartless speculation may succeed,<br>Where the sole object is to frame a creed ;<br>The sophist's heart may suit their eager quest,<br>Who only aim to prove their creed the best ;<br>But not such views his anxious search control,<br>Who loves the truth because he loves his soul.<br>Truth is but one with Heaven, in his esteem,<br>The sparkling spring of life's eternal stream ;<br>And hence, with equal singleness of heart,<br>He traces out each less essential part :<br>No worldly motives can his views entice ;<br>He parts with all to gain the pearl of price.<br>Why is opinion, singly as it stands,<br>So much inherited like house and lands ?<br>Whence comes it that from sire to son it goes,<br>Like a dark eye-brow or a Roman nose ?<br>How comes it, too, that notions, wrong or right,<br>Which no direct affinities unite,<br>On every side of party ground, one sees,<br>Clung close together like a swarm of bees ?<br>Where one is held, through habit, form, or force,<br>The rest are all consented to of course,<br>As though combined by some interior plot ;<br>Is it necessity, or chance, or what ?<br>Where'er the undiscovered cause be sought,<br>No man would trace its origin to thought :<br>Then shall we say, with leave of Dr. Gall, <br>It comes to pass from thinking not at all ?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though man a thinking being is defined,<br>Few use the grand prerogative of mind :<br>How few think justly of the thinking few !<br>How many never think, who think they do !<br>Opinion, therefore--such our mental dearth--<br>Depends on mere locality or birth.<br>Hence, the warm tory, eloquent and big<br>With loyal zeal, had he been born a whig,<br>Would rave for liberty with equal flame,<br>No shadow of distinction but the name.<br>Hence, Christian bigots, 'neath the pagan cloud,<br>Had roared for 'great Diana' just as loud ;<br>Or, dropped at Rome, at Mecca, or Pekin,<br>For Fo , the prophet, or the man of sin,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Much of the light and soundness of our creed,<br>Whate'er it be, depends on what we read.<br>How many clamour loudly for their way,<br>Who never heard what others have to say :<br>Fixt where they are, determined to be right,<br>They fear to be disturbed by further light ;<br>And where the voice of argument is heard,<br>Away they run, and will not hear a word.<br>Form notions vague, and gathered up by chance,<br>Or mere report, of what you might advance ;<br>Resolve the old frequented path to tread,<br>And still to think as they were born and bred.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Besides this blind devotion to a sect<br>Custom produces much the same effect.<br>Our desks with piles of controversy groan ;<br>But still, alas ! each party's with its own,<br>Each deems his logic must conviction bring,<br>If people would but read ;--but there's the thing !<br>The sermons, pamphlets, papers, books, reviews,<br>That plead our own opinions, we peruse ;<br>And these alone--as though the plan had been<br>To rivet all our prejudices in.<br>'Tis really droll to see how people's shelves,<br>Go where you will, are labelled like themselves.<br>Ask if your neighbour--he whose party tone,<br>Polemic, or political, is known--<br>Sees such a publication--naming one<br>That takes a different side, or sides with none ;<br>And straight in flat, uncomfortable-wise,<br>That damps all further mention, he replies,<br>'No, sir, we do not see that work--I know<br>Its general views ;--we take in so and so.'<br>Thus each retains his notions, every one ;<br>Thus they descend complete from sire to son ;<br>And hence, the blind contempt so freely shown<br>For every one's opinions but our own.<br>How oft from public or from private pique,<br>Conscience and truth are not allowed to speak :<br>Reasons might weigh that now are quite forgot,<br>If such a man or party urged them not ;<br>But oh, what logic strong enough can be,<br>To prove that they have clearer views than we ! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In times like ours, 'twere wise if people would<br>Well scrutinize their zeal for doing good.<br>A few plain questions might suffice, to prove<br>What flows from party--what from christian love.<br>--Our prayers are heard--some Mussulman, at last<br>Forsakes his prophet--some Hindoo his caste ;<br>Accepts a Saviour, and avows the choice ;<br>How glad we are, how much our hearts rejoice !<br>The news is told and echoed, till the tale,<br>Howe'er reviving, almost waxes stale.<br>--A second convert Gospel grace allures--<br>Oh, but this time he was not ours but yours ; <br>It came to pass we know not when or how ;<br>Well, are we quite as glad and thankful now ?<br>Or can we scarce the rising wish suppress,<br>That we were honoured with the whole success ?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is an eye that marks the ways of men,<br>With strict, impartial, analyzing ken :<br>Our motley creeds, our crude opinions, lie<br>All, all unveiled to that omniscient eye.<br>He sees the softest shades by error thrown ;<br>Marks where His truth is left to shine alone ;<br>Decides with most exact, unerring skill,<br>Wherein we differ from His word and will.<br>No specious names nor reasonings to His view,<br>The false can varnish, or deform the true ;<br>Nor vain excuses e'er avail, to plead<br>The right of theory for the wrong of deed.<br>Before that unembarrassed, just survey,<br>What heaps of refuse must be swept away ;<br>How must its search from every creed remove<br>All but the golden grains of truth and love !<br>Yet, with compassion for our feeble powers,<br>For oh ! His thoughts and ways are not as ours.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">--There is a day, in flaming terrors bright,<br>When truth and error shall be brought to light.<br>Who then shall rise, amid the shining throng,<br>To boast that he was right, and you were wrong ?<br>When each rejoicing saint shall veil his face,<br>And none may triumph, but in glorious grace !<br>No meaner praise shall heavenly tongues employ :<br>Yet, they shall reap the more abundant joy,<br>Who sought His truth, with simple, humble aim<br>To do His will, and glorify His name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jane+Taylor">Jane Taylor</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416962" data-title="Prejudice de Jane Taylor" data-description="IN yonder red-brick mansion, tight and square, Just at the town's commencement, lives the mayor. Some yards of shining gravel, fenced with box, Lead to the painted portal--where one knocks : There, in the left-hand parlour, all in state, Sit he an..."></div> </div> </div>

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