With sweet kind natures, as in honey'd cells, Religion lives, and feels herself at home; But only on a formal visit dwells Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb. Shun pride, O Rae!--whatever sort beside You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride! A pride there is of rank--a pride of birth, A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, A London pride--in short, there be on earth A host of prides, some better and some worse; But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint, The proudest swells a self-elected Saint. To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard. Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail! As for the humble breed retain'd by man, He scorns the whole domestic clan-- He bows, he bridles, He wheels, he sidles, At last, with stately dodgings, in a corner He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan! "Look here," he cries (to give him words), "Thou feather'd clay--thou scum of birds!" Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes,-- "Look here, thou vile predestined sinner, Doom'd to be roasted for a dinner, Behold those lovely variegated dyes! These are the rainbow colors of the skies, That Heav'n has shed upon me _con amore_-- A Bird of Paradise?--a pretty story! _I_ am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick! Look at my crown of glory! Thou dingy, dirty, drabbled, draggled jill!" And off goes Partlet, 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 heav'n's door Obsequious to the sinful man of riches-- But put the wicked, naked, barelegg'd 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 baulk 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!