Black Beetles in Amber

O Buddha, had you but foreknown

The vices of your priesthood

It would have made you twist and moan

As any wounded beast would.

You would have damned the entire lot

And turned a Christian, would you not?

There were no Christians, I'll allow,

In your day; that would only

Have brought distinction. Even now

A Christian might feel lonely.

All take the name, but facts are things

As stubborn as the will of kings.

The priests were ignorant and low

When ridiculed by Lucian;

The records, could we read, might show

The same of times Confucian.

And yet the fact I can't disguise

That Deacon Rankin's good and wise.

'Tis true he is not quite a priest,

Nor more than half a preacher;

But he exhorts as loud at least

As any living creature.

And when the plate is passed about

He never takes a penny out.

From Buddha down to Rankin! There,—

I never did intend to.

This pen's a buzzard's quill, I swear,

Such subjects to descend to.

When from the humming-bird I've wrung

A plume I'll write of Mike de Young.