Enough, the Bible is by wits arraign’d,
Genteel men doubt it, smart men say it’s feign’d,
Onward my powder’d beaux and boobies throng,
As puppies float the kennel’s stream along.
But their defects to varnish, and, in spite
Of pride and dignity, resolv’d to write,
I seiz’d the work myself. Straight, in a cloud
Of night involv’d, to Scotia’s realms I rode.
There, in the cobwebs of a college room,
I found my best Amanuensis, Hume,
And bosom’d in his breast. On dreams afloat,
The youth soar’d high, and, as I prompted, wrote.
Sublimest nonsense there I taught mankind,
Pure, genuine dross, from gold seven times refin’d.
From realm to realm the strains exalted rung,
And thus the sage, and thus his teacher, sung.
All things roll on, by fix’d eternal laws;
Yet no effect depends upon a cause:
Hence every law was made by Chance divine,
Parent most fit of order, and design!
Earth was not made, but happen’d: Yet, on earth,
All beings happen, by most stated birth;
Each thing miraculous; yet strange to tell,
Not God himself can shew a miracle.
Mean time, lest these great things, the vulgar mind,
With learning vast, and deep research, should blind,
Lest dull to read, and duller still when known,
My favorite scheme should mould, and sleep, alone;