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In silent barren Synod met
Within these roofless walls, where yet
The shafted arch and carved fret
Cling to the Ruin
The Brethren’s Skulls mourn, dewy wet,
Their Creed’s undoing.
2
The mitred ones of Nice and Trent
Were not so tongue-tied,—no, they went
Hot to their Councils, scarce content
With Orthodoxy
But ye, poor tongueless things, were meant
To speak by proxy.
3
Your Chronicles no more exist
Since Knox, the Revolutionist
Destroy’d the work of every fist
That scrawl’d black letter
Well! I’m a Craniologist
And may do better.
4
This skull-cap won the cowl from sloth
Or discontent, perhaps from both
And yet one day, against his oath
He tried escaping
For men, tho’ idle may be loth
To live on gaping.
5
A Toper this! he plied his glass
More strictly than he said the Mass
And lov’d to see a tempting lass
Come to Confession
Letting her absolution pass
O’er fresh transgression.
6
This crawl’d thro’ life in feebleness
Boasting he never knew excess
Cursing those crimes he scarce could guess
Or feel but faintly
With prayer that Heaven would cease to bless
Men so unsaintly.
7
Here’s a true Churchman! he’d affect
Much charity and ne’r neglect
To pray for Mercy on th’ elect
But thought no evil
In sending Heathen, Turk and Scot
All to the Devil!
8
Poor Skull! Thy fingers set ablaze,
With silver saint in golden rays,
The Holy Missal, thou didst craze
‘Mid bead and spangle
While others passed their idle days
In coil and wrangle.
9
Long time this sconce a helmet wore,
But sickness smites the conscience sore,
He broke his sword and hither bore
His gear and plunder
Took to the cowl—then rav’d and swore
At his damn’d blunder!
10
This lily-coloured skull with all
The teeth complete, so white and small
Belonged to one whose early pall
A lover shaded.
He died ere Superstition’s gall
His heart invaded.
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Ha! here is ‘undivulged crime!’
Despair forbad his soul to climb
Beyond this world, this mortal time
Of fever’d badness
Until this Monkish Pantomime
Dazzled his madness!
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A younger brother this! a man
Aspiring as a Tartar Khan
But, curb’d and baffl’d he began
The trade of frightening
It smack’d of power! and how he ran
To deal Heaven’s lightning!
13
This idiot-skull belonged to one,
A buried miser’s only son
Who, penitent ere he’d begun
To taste of pleasure
And hoping Heaven’s dread wrath to shun
Gave Hell his treasure.
14
Here is the forehead of an Ape
A robber’s mask—and near the nape
That bone—fie on’t, bears just the shape
Of carnal passion
Ah! he was one for theft and rape
In Monkish fashion!
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This was the Porter!—he could sing
Or dance, or play—do anything
And what the Friars bade him bring
They ne’er were balked of;
Matters not worth remembering
And seldom talk’d of.
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Enough! why need I further pore?
This corner holds at least a score,
And yonder twice as many more
Of Reverend Brothers,
’Tis the same story o’er and o’er
They’re like the others!
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