I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, I view that groveling idea as one Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, A charity-boy who longs to be a beadle. On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd How much a man can differ from his neighbor, One wishes worship freely given to God, Another wants to make it statute-labor-- The broad distinction in a line to draw, As means to lead us to the skies above, You say--Sir Andrew and his love of law, And I--the Saviour with his law of love. Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's college, Should nail the conscious needle to the north? I do confess that I abhor and shrink Prom schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Giles' sins, but blink The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly-- My soul revolts at such bare hypocrisy, And will not, dare not, fancy in accord The Lord of hosts with an exclusive lord Of this world's aristocracy, It will not own a nation so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowly Must work their passage as they do in ships. One place there is--beneath the burial-sod, Where all mankind are equalized by death; Another place there is--the Fane of God, Where all are equal who draw living breath;-- Juggle who will ELSEWHERE with his own soul, Playing the Judas with a temporal dole-- He who can come beneath that awful cope, In the dread presence of a Maker just, Who metes to every pinch of human dust One even measure of immortal hope-- He who can stand within that holy door, With soul unbowed by that pure spirit-level, And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,-- Might sit for Hell, and represent the Devil! Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae, In your last journey-work, perchance, you ravage, Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless, savage; A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,-- A scoffer, always on the grin, And sadly given to the mortal sin Of liking Mawworms less than merry maggots! The humble records of my life to search, I have not herded with mere pagan beasts: But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts," And I have been "where bells have knolled to church." Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim! Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells! And trembling all about the breezy dells, As fluttered by the wings of Cherubim. Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; And lost to sight the ecstatic lark above Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon:-- O pagans, heathens, infidels, and doubters! If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion, Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?