I honestly confess that I would hinder The Scottish member's legislative rigs, That spiritual Pinder, Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, That must be lash'd by law, wherever found, And driv'n to church, as to the parish pound.

I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, I view that grovelling 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 giv'n 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 From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Giles's sins, but blink The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly-- My soul revolts at such a 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 notion so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heav'n, 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 ev'ry pinch of human dust One even measure of immortal hope-- He who can stand within that holy door, With soul unbow'd 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 Maw-worms 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 knoll'd to church."

Dear bells! how sweet the sounds 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 flutter'd by the wings of Cherubim.

Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; And lost to sight th' 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?

A man may cry "Church! Church!" at ev'ry word, With no more piety than other people-- A daw's not reckon'd a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple.

The Temple is a good, a holy place, But quacking only gives it an ill savor; While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, And bring religion's self into disfavor!

Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon, Who, binding up his Bible with his Ledger, Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon, A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger, Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week, A saving bet against his sinful bias-- "Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, "I lie--I cheat--do anything for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious?"

In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts.

One Sunday morning--(at the day don't fret)-- In riding with a friend to Ponder's End Outside the stage, we happened to commend A certain mansion that we saw To Let.

"Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple "You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it!

'Twas built by the same man as built yon chapel And master wanted once to buy it,-- But t'other driv the bargain much too hard-- He ax'd sure-_ly_ a sum purdigious!

But being so particular religious, Why, _that_, you see, put master on his guard!"

Church is "a little heav'n below, I have been there and still would go,"-- Yet I am none of those, who think it odd A man can pray unbidden from the cassock, And, passing by the customary hassock, Kneel down remote upon the simple sod, And sue in forma pauperis to God.

As for the rest,--intolerant to none, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, Ev'n the poor Pagan's homage to the Sun I would not harshly scorn, lest even there I spurn'd some elements of Christian pray'r-- An aim, tho' erring, at a "world ayont,"

Acknowledgment of good--of man's futility, A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed That very thing so many Christians want-- Humility.

Such, unto Papists, Jews or turban'd Turks, Such is my spirit--(I don't mean my wraith!) Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my _works!_

I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, The Bible in one hand, And my own commonplace-book in the other-- But you have been to Palestine--alas!

Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, Resemble copper wire, or brass, Which gets the narrower by going farther!

Worthless are all such Pilgrimages--very!

If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive The human heats and rancor to revive That at the Sepulchre they ought to bury.

A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak!

Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, Scotland, renown'd for sanctity of old, Far distant Catholics to rate and scold For--doing as the Romans do at Rome?

With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?-- People who hold such absolute opinions Should stay at home, in Protestant dominions, Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.

Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings.

Consider then, before, like Hurlothrumbo You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, _You_ might have been High Priest to Mumbo Jumbo.

For me--thro' heathen ignorance perchance, Not having knelt in Palestine,--I feel None of that griffinish excess of zeal, Some travellers would blaze with here in France.

Dolls I can see in virgin-like array, Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker Like crazy Quixote at the puppet's play, If their "offence be rank," should mine be _rancor_?

Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him two black eyes for being blind?

Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop Around a canker'd stem should twine, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine?

The images, 'tis true, are strangely dress'd, With gauds and toys extremely out of season; The carving nothing of the very best, The whole repugnant to the eye of reason, Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason-- Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect One truly _Catholic_, one common form, At which uncheck'd All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.

Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss, One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, If hard by the wayside I found a cross, That made me breathe a pray'r upon the spot-- While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem's use, had trail'd around its base The blue significant Forget-me-not?

Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope Giving the eye much variegated scope;-- "Look round," it whisper'd, "on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair, But"--(how the simple legend pierced me thro'!) "PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX."

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!

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 ev'ry feature, Recall the good Creator to his creature, Making all earth a fane, all heav'n its dome!

To _his_ tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The jubilate of the soaring lark Is chant of clerk; For choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet; The sod's a cushion for his pious want; And, consecrated by the heav'n within it, The sky-blue pool, a font.

Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar; An organ breathes in every grove; And the full heart's a Psalter, Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love!

Sufficiently by stern necessitarians Poor Nature, with her face begrimed by dust, Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked; but must Religion have its own Utilitarians, Labell'd with evangelical phylacteries, To make the road to heav'n a railway trust, And churches--that's the naked fact--mere factories?

Oh! simply open wide the Temple door, And let the solemn, swelling, organ greet, With _Voluntaries_ meet, The willing advent of the rich and poor!

And while to God the loud Hosannas soar, With rich vibrations from the vocal throng-- From quiet shades that to the woods belong, And brooks with music of their own, Voices may come to swell the choral song With notes of praise they learned in musings lone.

How strange it is while on all vital questions, That occupy the House and public mind, We always meet with some humane suggestions Of gentle measures of a healing kind, Instead of harsh severity and vigor, The Saint alone his preference retains For bills of penalties and pains, And marks his narrow code with legal rigor!

Why shun, as worthless of affiliation, What men of all political persuasion Extol--and even use upon occasion-- That Christian principle, Conciliation?