The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

307
A Bird of Paradise?--a pretty story!
_I_ am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick!
Look at my crown of glory!
Thou dingy, dirty, dabbled, draggled jill!"
And off goes Partlett, wriggling from a kick,
With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!
That little simile exactly paints
How sinners are despised by saints.
By saints!--the Hypocrites that ope heaven's door
Obsequious to the sinful man of riches--
But put the wicked, naked, bare-legged poor,
In parish stocks, instead of breeches.
The Saints?--the Bigots that in public spout,
Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian,
And go like walking "Lucifers" about--
Mere living bundles of combustion.
The Saints!--the aping Fanatics that talk
All cant and rant and rhapsodies high flown--
That bid you balk
A Sunday walk,
And shun God's work as you should shun your own.
The Saints!--the Formalists, the extra pious,
Who think the mortal husk can save the soul,
By trundling, with a mere mechanic bias,
To church, just like a lignum-vitae bowl!
The Saints!--the Pharisees, whose beadle stands
Beside a stern coercive kirk,
A piece of human mason-work,
Calling all sermons contrabands,
In that great Temple that's not made with hands!
Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom
The gracious prodigality of nature,
The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom,
The bounteous providence in every feature,
Recall the good Creator to his creature,