134 BAXTER'S POEMS. Even reverend wit, can by transforming skill, Make heretics, and schismatics at will; It can prove white is black, and black is white; That night is day, and grossest darkness light. Say what you will, reason can prove it true, ·what ·is 't that drunken 1;eason cannot do ? How rare is that blest place, that age or season, Which may not own this character of reason ? And must we therefore brutishness prefer, Because well-::used reason is so rare? But when the drunken frenzy fit is gone, And devils their deceiving work have done ; When death the dreaming sinner doth awake, 0 what a dreadful change doth God then make ? Then wise men only are the pure and just, Who Christ, who God obey, and h~ him trust. MADNESS. LORD! is not man, tho' lodg'd in flesh and blood, A noble vital, intellectual spirit? Thou mad'st him in thine image, wise and good, Earth's paradise, Heaven's suburbs to inherit. How comes a reasonable human soul, Transform'd by such a monstrous ugly change . Into a brutish, raging, wicked fool, To p-od, himself, and wisdom, blind and strange; Thou gc.v'st him sight, who hath put out his eyes? Thou gav'8t him knowledge, who hath made him mad?
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