Quench the hot Flame, O God, that burns,
And Piety to Phrenzy turns!
Let not thy holy Name be made
A Cloak to hide a pilf’ring Trade!
Nor suffer that thy sacred Word,
Be turn’d to Rhapsody absurd!
Let it not serve, like Magic Sticks,
To preface pious Jugglers’ Tricks!
Root, root from Earth, these baneful weeds,
That choak Religion’s wholesome Seeds!
Give them the headlong Winds to bear,
And scatter in a desart Air!
Grind them to Powder, that no more
They sprout and grow as heretofore!
Burn the rank stalks, and let the flame
Thy Garden’s hot luxuriance tame,
Nor let it Flow’r, or Plant produce,
But what yields Ornament or Use!
But soft—my Muse! thy Breath recall—
Turn not Religion’s Milk to Gall!
Let not thy Zeal within thee nurse
A holy Rage, or pious Curse!
Far other is the heav’nly Plan,
Which the Redeemer gave to Man,
Who taught the World in Peace to live,
And e’en our Enemies forgive!
Live then, ye Wretches! to declare,
How long our God with Men can bear!
A living Monument to be
Of the Almighty’s Clemency!
Who still is good, altho’ You preach
Yourselves almost ’bove Mercy’s reach;
And, tho’ his goodness You resist,
Can even spare a Methodist.
F I N I S.
WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK
MEMORIAL LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES
