Shapes of Clay

O nonsense, parson—tell me not they thrive

And jubilate who follow your dictation.

The good are the unhappiest lot alive—

I know they are from careful observation.

If freedom from the terrors of damnation

Lengthens the visage like a telescope,

And lacrymation is a sign of hope,

Then I'll continue, in my dreadful plight,

To tread the dusky paths of sin, and grope

Contentedly without your lantern's light;

And though in many a bog beslubbered quite,

Refuse to flay me with ecclesiastic soap.

You say 'tis a sad world, seeing I'm condemned,

With many a million others of my kidney.

Each continent's Hammed, Japheted and Shemmed

With sinners—worldlings like Sir Philip Sidney

And scoffers like Voltaire, who thought it bliss

To simulate respect for Genesis—

Who bent the mental knee as if in prayer,

But mocked at Moses underneath his hair,

And like an angry gander bowed his head to hiss.

Seeing such as these, who die without contrition,

Must go to—beg your pardon, sir—perdition,

The sons of light, you tell me, can't be gay,

But count it sin of the sort called omission

The groan to smother or the tear to stay

Or fail to—what is that they live by?—pray.

So down they flop, and the whole serious race is

Put by divine compassion on a praying basis.

Well, if you take it so to heart, while yet

Our own hearts are so light with nature's leaven,

You'll weep indeed when we in Hades sweat,

And you look down upon us out of Heaven.

In fancy, lo! I see your wailing shades

Thronging the crystal battlements. Cascades

Of tears spring singing from each golden spout,

Run roaring from the verge with hoarser sound,

Dash downward through the glimmering profound,

Quench the tormenting flame and put the Devil out!

Presumptuous ass! to you no power belongs

To pitchfork me to Heaven upon the prongs

Of a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter,

With less of ink than incoherence fraught

Befits the folly that it tries to utter.

Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter:

You suffer from impediment of thought.

When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care:

Your fingers all being thumbs, point, Heaven knows where!

Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame,

Bears witness how my anger I can tame:

I've called you everything except your hateful name!