My second shows each passion’s changeful fit.
My whole, though motionless, declares
In many ways how everybody fares.
The Reverend Hildebrand Pusey de Vere,
Whose living was worth some two thousand a year,
Was a pattern of parsons—wrote rhythmical flummery
Far better than Gaber, or Keble, or Gomery;
His parishioners all might be Brahmins or Hindoos,
If they’d only subscribe for stained glass in the windows.
But of all his offences perhaps this was the worst,