Keep Thy Smooth Words And Juggling Homilies

Oh, For A Forty-parson Power To Chant Thy Praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, For A Hymn Loud As The Virtues Thou Dost Loudly Vaunt, Not Practise!

And Doubt And Discord Step 'twixt Thine And Thee.

What Exile From Himself Can Flee? To Zones, Though More And More Remote, Still, Still Pursues, Where'er I Be, The Blight Of Life--the Demon Thought.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

For What Were All These Country Patriots Born? To Hunt, And Vote, And Raise The Price Of Corn?