To which—if in good business—
We have hereditary access;
Where to afford the Saints relief
From prayer and from religious questions,
Round after round of deathless beef
Flatters celestial digestions;
Where, in white robe, with golden crown,
We watch our enemies sent down,
To other spheres, while we lean out,
Divinest pity in our eyes,
And wonder why these sinners flout
Our kindly pitying surprise,
Why look so angry when we play
On gold harps as they go away,
A hymn tune, dear, familiar?
But now we stand within the space
Where marble females drape a tear
Above a whisker'd marble face.
"Isn't it pretty?" Even now
Rich and exotic blossoms grow
About each granite monument
Of men frock-coated, unaware
Of Judgment; what emolument
Requites a weeping willow's care?
Look! Over there a broken column
Is watched by one geranium,
Whose scorching scarlet tones uphold
Damnation and eternal fire
To those who will not reckon gold—
Who are not worthy of their hire,