Where clouds of incense ever seemed to dwell,
And rhythmic waves of music rose and fell—
I’ve heard the priest, in pomp of vain attire,
Prate ancient prayers that did no soul inspire,
Nor reach God’s ear. Religion’s whited tomb,
Appalling in its cold sepulchral gloom!
How far removed by all vain rules of art,
Yet deep enshrined within my loyal heart,
Is that plain building, simple, unadorned,
Loved by a few, altho by many scorned—