Like him who dwells upon the coast,
Who of the priesthood makes his boast,
Regardless what the flock endure,
“If he can but the fleece secure!”
His present residence and living,
Are of his earthly father’s giving;
So none his title dare dispute,
For Bishops cannot turn him out!
Though life and conduct be profane,
He knows that men dare not complain;
Or soon he’d show them his degrees,
And take revenge in tythes and fees!
Such workmen’s labour is in vain
To keep their hands from bloody stain;
In vain they strive to show the road,
That leads to glory and to God!
No wonder if such Church decay,
If members leave it day by day,
Where tyrannising is the law,—
And till a change, it must be so.
The remedy will be unknown,
Till Priests are of the Spirit born;
Till they get hearts refin’d and pure,
Dissenters must their scorn endure!
TO THE MOOR BIRDS IN A STORM.
Ye birds of the Moor, I doubt you’ll be poor,
The storm is quite likely to last;
The owl and the crow, are shelter’d below,
But you are expos’d to the blast!
The snow lies so deep, the hill is so steep,
My footsteps are feeble and slow,
O lend me your wings, ye dear little things,
To carry me over the snow!