An Expostulation

Thy value, as they 'd prize a nut,
And know the kernel by the shell.

If half the light, that has been thrown
_On_ heads, were only poured _within_,
Thou wouldst not thus be left to own
The darkness that is now thy sin.

But, while the world is in a blaze
Of purely phrenologic light,
Thou, wildered thing, art in a maze,
And destitute of faith and sight.

They use a thousand meaning words
Thou couldst not utter or define,
Of which, to tell the truth, three thirds
Were gravel, in a mouth like thine.

They hold me out an empty skull,
To show the powers of living brains:
'T is just like feeling of the hull,
To tell what goods the ship contains.

And, whether nature or mishap
Have raised the bump, 't is all the same;
The sage's crown, or dunce's cap
Must be awarded as its claim.

This hobby, that so many sit,
And manage with such ease and grace,
I dare not try with rein or bit,
It seems so of the donkey race.

And yet, my head, no doubt, 't is all
A fault of thine, a want of sight,
That so much said by Combe and Gall
And Spurzheim cannot turn thee right.
I know not what thy case may be,--
If thou art hollow, or opaque;
I only know thou canst not see,
And faith declines one step to take.

This burst of light has turned thee numb,
Depriving thee of every sense;
So now, if tried, thou must be dumb,
Nor say one word in self-defence!