Shapes of Clay

Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note,

Worthy of honor from a feeble pen

Blunted in service of all true, good men,

You serve the Lord—in courses, table d'hôte:

Au, naturel, as well as à la Nick—

"Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick."

O, truly pious caterer, forbear

To push the Saviour and Him crucified

(Brochette you'd call it) into their inside

Who're all unused to such ambrosial fare.

The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion

Of aught that it has taken on compulsion.

I search the Scriptures, but I do not find

That e'er the Spirit beats with angry wings

For entrance to the heart, but sits and sings

To charm away the scruples of the mind.

It says: "Receive me, please; I'll not compel"—

Though if you don't you will go straight to Hell!

Well, that's compulsion, you will say. 'T is true:

We cower timidly beneath the rod

Lifted in menace by an angry God,

But won't endure it from an ape like you.

Detested simian with thumb prehensile,

Switch me and I would brain you with my pencil!

Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn your back

On its transplendency to flog some wight

Who gropes and stumbles in the infernal night

Your ugly shadow lays along his track.

O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the sin,

Behold what rascals try to scourge it in!