Shapes of Clay

Professor dear, I think it queer

That all these good religions

('Twixt you and me, some two or three

Are schemes for plucking pigeons)—

I mean 'tis strange that every change

Our poor minds to unfetter

Entails a new religion—true

As t' other one, and better.

From each in turn the truth we learn,

That wood or flesh or spirit

May justly boast it rules the roast

Until we cease to fear it.

Nay, once upon a time long gone

Man worshipped Cat and Lizard:

His God he'd find in any kind

Of beast, from a to izzard.

When risen above his early love

Of dirt and blood and slumber,

He pulled down these vain deities,

And made one out of lumber.

"Far better that than even a cat,"

The Howisons all shouted;

"When God is wood religion's good!"

But one poor cynic doubted.

"A timber God—that's very odd!"

Said Progress, and invented

The simple plan to worship Man,

Who, kindly soul! consented.

But soon our eye we lift asky,

Our vows all unregarded,

And find (at least so says the priest)

The Truth—and Man's discarded.

Along our line of march recline

Dead gods devoid of feeling;

And thick about each sun-cracked lout

Dried Howisons are kneeling.