The words of faith in both his hands he bore,
Prayers, cut and dry, by ancient prelates made,
Who, bigots while they liv'd, could do no more
Than leave them still by bigots to be said.
27
But he admir'd them all!—he read with joy
St. Athanasius in his thundering creed,
And curs'd the men whom Satan did employ
To make King Charles, that heav'n-born martyr, bleed.
28
At last they reach'd the spiry building high,
And soon they enter'd at the eastern gate—
The parson said his prayers most learnedly,
And mutter'd more than memory can relate.
29
Then through the temple's lengthy aisles they went,
Approaching still the pulpit's painted door,
From whence, on Sundays, many a vow was sent,
And sermons plunder'd from some prelate's store.
30
Here, as of right, the priest prepar'd to rise,
And leave the corpse and gaping crowd below,
Like sultry Phœbus glar'd his flaming eyes,
Less fierce the stars of Greenland evenings glow.
31