Fifty of the Protestant Ballads and " The Anti-Ritualistic Directorium, " of Martin F. Tupper ... New; and reprinted |
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| “DIRECTORIUM ANGLICANUM.”
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Fifty of the Protestant Ballads |  |
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“DIRECTORIUM ANGLICANUM.”
Secret instructions to our Anglican Clergy.
I. CAUTION: MUSIC: PAINTING: FLOWERS: EUCHARISTIC SACRIFICE: THRALDOM.
Wisely, and warily: not too much haste;
But bait your traps to catch the people's taste.
But bait your traps to catch the people's taste.
By music, first, attract their ears and hearts,
Bass, tenor, alto, set and sung in parts;
What matter, though no spirit's praise be there?
Chaunting is only modulated air;
The crowd will come to listen, not to pray,—
So drill your choristers by night and day.
Bass, tenor, alto, set and sung in parts;
What matter, though no spirit's praise be there?
Chaunting is only modulated air;
The crowd will come to listen, not to pray,—
So drill your choristers by night and day.
Next, painting: decorate these paltry fanes,
By base churchwardens whitewashed with such pains;
Gilding and colours, reds and greens and blues,
And windows, staining daylight to all hues,
Corona, carvings—(idols by-and-by)—
These be your second aim, to please the eye;
What tho' such sights distract the soul from prayer?
The crowd will come, at any rate to stare.
By base churchwardens whitewashed with such pains;
Gilding and colours, reds and greens and blues,
And windows, staining daylight to all hues,
Corona, carvings—(idols by-and-by)—
These be your second aim, to please the eye;
What tho' such sights distract the soul from prayer?
The crowd will come, at any rate to stare.
Then flowers—O yes! we win the women thus
How charmingly young sisters flock to us!
And with what zeal their wreaths and texts are set,
Where curates are strict celibates—as yet;
So every festal season hung in flowers
Shall make dull churches smile like Paphian bowers,
And, if religion look forgotten so,
What matter? crowds will come, to see the show.
How charmingly young sisters flock to us!
And with what zeal their wreaths and texts are set,
Where curates are strict celibates—as yet;
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Shall make dull churches smile like Paphian bowers,
And, if religion look forgotten so,
What matter? crowds will come, to see the show.
But chiefest this, the point of all, shrewd priest;
Make a dread mystery that simple feast
Which early Christians knew for bread and wine
Tasted in memory of their Lord divine,
—Unconsecrated,—He gave thanks, and brake,
And bade them take it for His own dear sake.
Bread?—it is flesh!—not wine, it is the Blood!
The priest's bare word creates a Present God!
Not reverence only, superstitious care
Must watch and worship every morsel there;
Incense and vestments, noon-day flaring lights,
And early papal—earlier pagan—rites,
Preach up all these; and bid the people press
For absolution, will they but confess;
And make them sure this wafer with this cup
Washes all guilt away and wipes it up;
Provided only, creeping to their priest,
(Who gives them God-in-sacrifice for feast,)
They humbly tell him all the sins they've done,
And he is willing to forgive each one!
Make a dread mystery that simple feast
Which early Christians knew for bread and wine
Tasted in memory of their Lord divine,
—Unconsecrated,—He gave thanks, and brake,
And bade them take it for His own dear sake.
Bread?—it is flesh!—not wine, it is the Blood!
The priest's bare word creates a Present God!
Not reverence only, superstitious care
Must watch and worship every morsel there;
Incense and vestments, noon-day flaring lights,
And early papal—earlier pagan—rites,
Preach up all these; and bid the people press
For absolution, will they but confess;
And make them sure this wafer with this cup
Washes all guilt away and wipes it up;
Provided only, creeping to their priest,
(Who gives them God-in-sacrifice for feast,)
They humbly tell him all the sins they've done,
And he is willing to forgive each one!
So, English clergy!—(not to be too long,
And not intending all, for that were wrong,)—
Acutely step by step advancing thus,
And luring the lay-folk to lean on us,
We shall, O glorious! soon set England free
From—civil and religious liberty!
Her Hanoverian throne shall no more bind
Protestant errors on the British mind;
Her people shall not dare to learn or teach
Except as Holy Church is pleased to preach;
And all our morals, all our light, at home
Shall rival light and morals as in Rome,—
While England's present peace and future hope
Must cling,—O praise!—to our “Lord God the Pope!”
And not intending all, for that were wrong,)—
Acutely step by step advancing thus,
And luring the lay-folk to lean on us,
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From—civil and religious liberty!
Her Hanoverian throne shall no more bind
Protestant errors on the British mind;
Her people shall not dare to learn or teach
Except as Holy Church is pleased to preach;
And all our morals, all our light, at home
Shall rival light and morals as in Rome,—
While England's present peace and future hope
Must cling,—O praise!—to our “Lord God the Pope!”
II. THE PRIEST: BACKTURNING: INTONING: PREACHING: PROCESSIONS: THE MASS: THE ALTAR: TRANSUBSTANTIATION: MARIAN MARTYRS: ANOTHER REFORMATION.
The priest is God on earth,—a present god
To bind and loose, to be both staff and rod:
Treat the lay folk then with supreme disdain,
And thereby make your godship pretty plain;
In every gesture take the scornful tack,
And on the congregation turn your back,
While to yourself, as no concern of theirs,
With rapid drone you gabble through the prayers.
To bind and loose, to be both staff and rod:
Treat the lay folk then with supreme disdain,
And thereby make your godship pretty plain;
In every gesture take the scornful tack,
And on the congregation turn your back,
While to yourself, as no concern of theirs,
With rapid drone you gabble through the prayers.
Worship—(as did of old each Baal-priest,
So saith Ezekiel)—ever toward the East:
'Tis true, the Jewish Sanctum stood due West,
But Bel and Babylon and Rome know best;
And altar-worship is ensured beside;
And the lay-folk insulted and defied!
So saith Ezekiel)—ever toward the East:
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But Bel and Babylon and Rome know best;
And altar-worship is ensured beside;
And the lay-folk insulted and defied!
So, with the sermon; a defiant tone;
No mercy,—saving through the priest alone,
Who flings his transubstantiated crumbs
For mean lay dogs to gather where he comes,
This be your message; ‘gospel message?’ No!
The very word's dissentery and low.
No mercy,—saving through the priest alone,
Who flings his transubstantiated crumbs
For mean lay dogs to gather where he comes,
This be your message; ‘gospel message?’ No!
The very word's dissentery and low.
Then, manage, every week advancing higher,
Some small procession with your village quire;
And cross and bow upon the Latin plan,
And be as “histrionic” as you can,
And work up all the petty pomp you may,
For Celebrating High Mass, every day!
Some small procession with your village quire;
And cross and bow upon the Latin plan,
And be as “histrionic” as you can,
And work up all the petty pomp you may,
For Celebrating High Mass, every day!
The table, where, as Puritans profess,
A humble supper, neither more nor less,
Religiously commemorates their Lord,
Drinking His spirit, feeding on His word,
And instituted by that Lord to prove
(Unsacrificed as yet) His living love,—
That table is an Altar! and that food
Not bread and wine, but human flesh and blood!
This be your teaching,—and there follows straight
The worship of the Host you consecrate,
Wafer and wine adored and set on high,
And—the shrewd priest well glorified thereby!
A humble supper, neither more nor less,
Religiously commemorates their Lord,
Drinking His spirit, feeding on His word,
And instituted by that Lord to prove
(Unsacrificed as yet) His living love,—
That table is an Altar! and that food
Not bread and wine, but human flesh and blood!
This be your teaching,—and there follows straight
The worship of the Host you consecrate,
Wafer and wine adored and set on high,
And—the shrewd priest well glorified thereby!
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Those “Marian Martyrs,”—blest be Mary's name
Who piously consigned them to the flame!—
They held such heresies; and would not kneel
Before the fragments of a holy meal;
Therefore the generous Gardiner burnt alive
Latimer, Cranmer, and their hornet hive,—
And, all for Mother-church and mercy's sake,
Bonner committed Ridley to the stake,—
And, served them right; so now shall Oxford swear,
And stone from stone their vile Memorial tear!
Who piously consigned them to the flame!—
They held such heresies; and would not kneel
Before the fragments of a holy meal;
Therefore the generous Gardiner burnt alive
Latimer, Cranmer, and their hornet hive,—
And, all for Mother-church and mercy's sake,
Bonner committed Ridley to the stake,—
And, served them right; so now shall Oxford swear,
And stone from stone their vile Memorial tear!
Yes, Anglicans,—true Catholics once more,
By Luther too long poisoned heretofore,
No longer Protestants, but free to hope
For pardon—after penance—from the Pope,
Keen English priests, who cunningly devise
How to bring back what laymen still call lies,
Scheming to break strong Britons to your rule,
Who hate your Jesuitic high-church school,
Listen, shrewd priests!—if only you'll go on
Winning such triumphs as your zeal hath won,—
No doubt, again shall Reformation stand
And sweep the stalls and stables of this land,
No doubt, you may contrive to rend in twain
The Nation's church, and leave it,—to our gain,—
No doubt, your Roman tastes may find in Rome
More genial cures than those you lose at home,
No doubt, some bishops and more priests must search
For sees and livings from some other church
Than England, in her watch-tower on the waves,
Has fixed for freemen, not for popish slaves!
By Luther too long poisoned heretofore,
No longer Protestants, but free to hope
For pardon—after penance—from the Pope,
Keen English priests, who cunningly devise
How to bring back what laymen still call lies,
Scheming to break strong Britons to your rule,
Who hate your Jesuitic high-church school,
Listen, shrewd priests!—if only you'll go on
Winning such triumphs as your zeal hath won,—
No doubt, again shall Reformation stand
And sweep the stalls and stables of this land,
No doubt, you may contrive to rend in twain
The Nation's church, and leave it,—to our gain,—
No doubt, your Roman tastes may find in Rome
More genial cures than those you lose at home,
No doubt, some bishops and more priests must search
For sees and livings from some other church
Than England, in her watch-tower on the waves,
Has fixed for freemen, not for popish slaves!
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III. DOVES AND SERPENTS: THE SCHOOL: THE CATECHISM: THE CHURCHYARD: PURGATORY: VESTMENTS: HYMNAL
Be wise as serpents,—but in doves' disguise;
Be deep and dark,—in light all peril lies;
Hide all your aims, and compass all your ends
By specious silence, making mammon-friends,
And work our Scheme in every secret way,
For Catholicity some happy day!
Let the old people scold, protesting still;
They must die out, and if you wait they will;
But—snare the young; entice them to our side
For unity with Rome, whate'er betide;
Catch them unfledged, secure the parish school,
Infect the children,—that's the golden rule!
Win them and warp them, ever seeming kind,
And set your springe to trap each truant mind;
Encourage Sunday cricket after church,
And let them leave the sermon in the lurch.
Be deep and dark,—in light all peril lies;
Hide all your aims, and compass all your ends
By specious silence, making mammon-friends,
And work our Scheme in every secret way,
For Catholicity some happy day!
Let the old people scold, protesting still;
They must die out, and if you wait they will;
But—snare the young; entice them to our side
For unity with Rome, whate'er betide;
Catch them unfledged, secure the parish school,
Infect the children,—that's the golden rule!
Win them and warp them, ever seeming kind,
And set your springe to trap each truant mind;
Encourage Sunday cricket after church,
And let them leave the sermon in the lurch.
Catechize publicly; your vulgar boy
Spouts to the congregation with pert joy,
Glad, as your mouthpiece to denounce for schism
Those heretics who shirk their catechism,
And quick to shout that “Korah and his crew
Mean the Dissenters,” and Low-churchmen too.
Catch every mother, as you can, with tea;
The father—ah, a hopeless case is he!
Let him die out,—protesting as he dies,
“I hates them priests, and all their Popish lies.”
Spouts to the congregation with pert joy,
Glad, as your mouthpiece to denounce for schism
Those heretics who shirk their catechism,
And quick to shout that “Korah and his crew
Mean the Dissenters,” and Low-churchmen too.
Catch every mother, as you can, with tea;
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Let him die out,—protesting as he dies,
“I hates them priests, and all their Popish lies.”
Bait your churchyard: you may catch converts there;
An epitaph can finish—with a pray'r;
And, where, “Physicians was in vain,” instead
Carve out some intercession—for the dead!
A touch of this would quicken all you teach;
For so, defunct parishioners will preach
Beneath stone crosses,—[be it understood
Your fees for stone are sixfold those for wood]—
And crowns of everlastings now and then
May please the women; while, to scare the men,
That Dives-text of purgatorial fire
Will hint what you and holy church require!
An epitaph can finish—with a pray'r;
And, where, “Physicians was in vain,” instead
Carve out some intercession—for the dead!
A touch of this would quicken all you teach;
For so, defunct parishioners will preach
Beneath stone crosses,—[be it understood
Your fees for stone are sixfold those for wood]—
And crowns of everlastings now and then
May please the women; while, to scare the men,
That Dives-text of purgatorial fire
Will hint what you and holy church require!
Yes,—purgatory; no one preaches h-ll,—
The word's exploded, which is quite as well,—
“Hay, stubble, gold,” of course you know the text,
Work it, and follow with Indulgence next:
Great things may come of fires engendering fears,
And money buying off a term of years,
And, by your power as priest, who knows? escape,
And prayers of saints to help in every scrape!
Saints?—living saints? as Baxter might describe?
No!—dead Italians of the Jesuit tribe.
The word's exploded, which is quite as well,—
“Hay, stubble, gold,” of course you know the text,
Work it, and follow with Indulgence next:
Great things may come of fires engendering fears,
And money buying off a term of years,
And, by your power as priest, who knows? escape,
And prayers of saints to help in every scrape!
Saints?—living saints? as Baxter might describe?
No!—dead Italians of the Jesuit tribe.
Your vestments; let stale antiquaries quote
That “Surplice” means “a sheepskin overcoat;”
Chasuble, “Casula, a little roof,”
The Cope or Capa, Cape, “a waterproof;”
Let them profanely prove our holy dress
A Tuscan peasant's, neither more nor less:
Yet see that these be consecrated quite,
Bedizened, incensed, jewelled, made a sight;
And change from red to green, from green to blue,
As rubrics do not say you may not do!
And utterly renounce (pernicious vest,
Wherein vile Luther and his like were drest,)
The bands, the gown, of Puritanic black;
And wear a braided cross upon your back.
That “Surplice” means “a sheepskin overcoat;”
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The Cope or Capa, Cape, “a waterproof;”
Let them profanely prove our holy dress
A Tuscan peasant's, neither more nor less:
Yet see that these be consecrated quite,
Bedizened, incensed, jewelled, made a sight;
And change from red to green, from green to blue,
As rubrics do not say you may not do!
And utterly renounce (pernicious vest,
Wherein vile Luther and his like were drest,)
The bands, the gown, of Puritanic black;
And wear a braided cross upon your back.
For hymns: each Anglican should still contrive
Through pious frauds to help our Scheme to thrive,
With holy Roman doctrine leavening well
The common doggrel he can steal and sell.
Range for all tastes your calculated rhymes;
Be all things to all men, and for all times:
Get in, for gilding every Popish pill,
As much of low-church twaddle as you will;
But now and then, let Mary's praise be heard,
And Saints and Angels have their cunning word;
Mingle your oil and water, flint and steel,
The lowest Newton with the highest Neale,
And in poetic slipslop keenly mix
With low-church Cross your high-church Crucifix;
Tune up yourself as priest above the flock,
And sing St. Peter as the living rock!
Through pious frauds to help our Scheme to thrive,
With holy Roman doctrine leavening well
The common doggrel he can steal and sell.
Range for all tastes your calculated rhymes;
Be all things to all men, and for all times:
Get in, for gilding every Popish pill,
As much of low-church twaddle as you will;
But now and then, let Mary's praise be heard,
And Saints and Angels have their cunning word;
Mingle your oil and water, flint and steel,
The lowest Newton with the highest Neale,
And in poetic slipslop keenly mix
With low-church Cross your high-church Crucifix;
Tune up yourself as priest above the flock,
And sing St. Peter as the living rock!
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IV. APOSTOLICAL SUCCESSION: SACRAMENTS: SCRIPTURE NAMES AND THINGS: CUNNING SERMONS: A WORD TO BISHOPS.
Claim for yourself, with most dogmatic force,
Direct Succession from the Twelve, of course;
In spirit? No! but by material touch,—
Whereat those simple Twelve would marvel much.
Direct Succession from the Twelve, of course;
In spirit? No! but by material touch,—
Whereat those simple Twelve would marvel much.
Then preach your “system;”—to the twain of yore
(Exaggerate them both) add sundry more;
The Sacraments? “two generally,”—true,
But, other five particularly too!
Orders,—vicegerency of God at least;
Marriage,—made valid only through the priest;
Penance,—not penitence—the word defiles—
But licking crosses on the chancel-tiles;
Next, Confirmation, as the door of heaven;
And Extreme Unction, filling up the seven;
These teach and preach: if any doubt your plan,
Refuse your absolution to that man,
And terrify the wretch's dying hour
With all the rancour of your priestly power!
(Exaggerate them both) add sundry more;
The Sacraments? “two generally,”—true,
But, other five particularly too!
Orders,—vicegerency of God at least;
Marriage,—made valid only through the priest;
Penance,—not penitence—the word defiles—
But licking crosses on the chancel-tiles;
Next, Confirmation, as the door of heaven;
And Extreme Unction, filling up the seven;
These teach and preach: if any doubt your plan,
Refuse your absolution to that man,
And terrify the wretch's dying hour
With all the rancour of your priestly power!
Use Scripture terms: but shear them of such sense
As Anglicans must hate with hate intense.
“Regeneration?”—Certainly! make sure
That every babe's baptized, and so—secure:
Let methodists in pious zeal profess
Some Higher Spirit needed there to bless,—
You only need a priest, a name, a phrase,
A drop of water, and—all's safe, always!
So,—“Be converted:” by all means!—but then
“Become like little children,”—not like men;
Give up your wills to God, that is, your priest,
But dare not judge nor reason in the least;
Obey the Church; obedience is the bliss;
“Conversion?”—O, by all means,—such as this!
As Anglicans must hate with hate intense.
“Regeneration?”—Certainly! make sure
That every babe's baptized, and so—secure:
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Some Higher Spirit needed there to bless,—
You only need a priest, a name, a phrase,
A drop of water, and—all's safe, always!
So,—“Be converted:” by all means!—but then
“Become like little children,”—not like men;
Give up your wills to God, that is, your priest,
But dare not judge nor reason in the least;
Obey the Church; obedience is the bliss;
“Conversion?”—O, by all means,—such as this!
So, too, at times, all gainsaying to confuse,
Surprise your people with your low-church views,
Urge them to private prayer, Berean search,
But not one word, just then, about the Church:
The like, if brother parsons come to hear,
Or best a bishop, or some bigwig near,
Treat them with pious gospel for the nonce,
And make your hearers think you sound for once:
Wonderful gains are got by cheating thus
Protestant blockheads to believe in Us;
Such honest fools are taken in this gin,
They judge us by themselves, and so we win.
Surprise your people with your low-church views,
Urge them to private prayer, Berean search,
But not one word, just then, about the Church:
The like, if brother parsons come to hear,
Or best a bishop, or some bigwig near,
Treat them with pious gospel for the nonce,
And make your hearers think you sound for once:
Wonderful gains are got by cheating thus
Protestant blockheads to believe in Us;
Such honest fools are taken in this gin,
They judge us by themselves, and so we win.
Well, English Bishops!—(not Archbishops too,
For happily we're safe in both of You,—
And, happier still, are safer in The Throne,
By Protestant Ascendancy our own,—
And, happiest yet, are safest in that Book
To which for all our liberties we look)—
Good English Bishops,—most at least are good,—
Must not such Jesuitism be withstood?
Should we not now, we laymen, on you call
To prove your faithfulness, and help us all?
For, if you fail us, congregations must
From such weak hands reclaim their sacred trust:
And as, three hundred years ago, our sires
Rescued the brand of truth from Smithfield fires,
Their sons now hold it forth; and bid you stand
Between the dead and living of this Land:
Purge out our plague-spots; prudently revise
Two or three words that taint our liturgies;
And leave no reason why The Common Prayer
Should seem unprotestant in some things there:
Drive from a thousand livings, as you may,
Those traitor priests who teach their flocks to stray;
And find us honest shepherds,—unlike those
Whom England hates and fears as Popish foes:
Thus only, are you safe upon your sees,
Thus only, are you proved not drones, but bees,
Thus only, English laymen still can own
Your bishoprics as props around The Throne,
Thus only, Bishops, can you consecrate
To God's true glory England's Church and State!
For happily we're safe in both of You,—
And, happier still, are safer in The Throne,
By Protestant Ascendancy our own,—
And, happiest yet, are safest in that Book
To which for all our liberties we look)—
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Must not such Jesuitism be withstood?
Should we not now, we laymen, on you call
To prove your faithfulness, and help us all?
For, if you fail us, congregations must
From such weak hands reclaim their sacred trust:
And as, three hundred years ago, our sires
Rescued the brand of truth from Smithfield fires,
Their sons now hold it forth; and bid you stand
Between the dead and living of this Land:
Purge out our plague-spots; prudently revise
Two or three words that taint our liturgies;
And leave no reason why The Common Prayer
Should seem unprotestant in some things there:
Drive from a thousand livings, as you may,
Those traitor priests who teach their flocks to stray;
And find us honest shepherds,—unlike those
Whom England hates and fears as Popish foes:
Thus only, are you safe upon your sees,
Thus only, are you proved not drones, but bees,
Thus only, English laymen still can own
Your bishoprics as props around The Throne,
Thus only, Bishops, can you consecrate
To God's true glory England's Church and State!
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V. HIGH CHURCH AND LOW CHURCH EPISCOPACY: SISTERHOODS: MONKS: CHURCH MILLINERY.
A few more hints; and hints are all you need,
There's quite a forest in a pinch of seed.
There's quite a forest in a pinch of seed.
If your own Bishop is a safe shrewd man,
And helps our Scheme subtly as he can,
Praise him aloud! Episcopacy there
Is God's Apostle in St. Egbert's chair;
Profess obedience blindly to his nod;
His English office is the voice of God!
Your Bishop's mandate?—need no further search
For more authority to rule the Church;
Your Bishop? 'tis the office, not the man;
Who dares dispute his word, who works our plan?
And helps our Scheme subtly as he can,
Praise him aloud! Episcopacy there
Is God's Apostle in St. Egbert's chair;
Profess obedience blindly to his nod;
His English office is the voice of God!
Your Bishop's mandate?—need no further search
For more authority to rule the Church;
Your Bishop? 'tis the office, not the man;
Who dares dispute his word, who works our plan?
But, if your Bishop, like an honest fool,
Presumes against our Scheme to rise and rule,
Denounce him, disobey him, and declare
Such bishoprics all castles in the air!
English Episcopacy! worthless, vain,—
There's no apostle here, that's pretty plain!
Apostle? what! can England boast of one,
Since she [with Peter!] call'd Rome Babylon?
Your English Bishop? drag him to church-law
And prove him then and there a man of straw
Obey his mandate? Nonsense! he's the man,
(A fig for office!)—who won't work our plan!
Presumes against our Scheme to rise and rule,
Denounce him, disobey him, and declare
Such bishoprics all castles in the air!
English Episcopacy! worthless, vain,—
There's no apostle here, that's pretty plain!
Apostle? what! can England boast of one,
Since she [with Peter!] call'd Rome Babylon?
Your English Bishop? drag him to church-law
And prove him then and there a man of straw
Obey his mandate? Nonsense! he's the man,
(A fig for office!)—who won't work our plan!
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Encourage sisterhoods: a deal is done
By dressing up young beauty like a nun,
Or hiding some old spinster's scraggy shape
In flowing robes of cambric and of crape:
She spies, neglected soul! this lingering chance
Of realizing her long life's romance,—
A husband now at last may yet be found
In some stale priest, on consecrated ground!
By dressing up young beauty like a nun,
Or hiding some old spinster's scraggy shape
In flowing robes of cambric and of crape:
She spies, neglected soul! this lingering chance
Of realizing her long life's romance,—
A husband now at last may yet be found
In some stale priest, on consecrated ground!
Encourage monkery: rich feeble heirs
Should be relieved of all their worldly cares,
And taught it a church-privilege indeed
To feel from miserable mammon freed!
While, glorious compensation for such dross,
They swing an incense-pot, or lift a cross,
And though their younger brothers starve at home,
Give all they have to England's Church—of Rome!
Should be relieved of all their worldly cares,
And taught it a church-privilege indeed
To feel from miserable mammon freed!
While, glorious compensation for such dross,
They swing an incense-pot, or lift a cross,
And though their younger brothers starve at home,
Give all they have to England's Church—of Rome!
Look to Church millinery; womenkind
Are filled with needlework in heart and mind;
Their thoughts fly stitching to their fingers' ends
And needlework will broider them your friends.
Then use those fingers to ensnare those hearts;
Church-decoration special zeal imparts:
Antimacassars, slippers, braces, these
Have had their little day, and fail to please,—
So now with altar-cloths and cushioned seats
Her dear young priest each fair adorer greets,
Making—as fanatics unkindly prove,—
Religion's self the stalking-horse of Love!
Are filled with needlework in heart and mind;
Their thoughts fly stitching to their fingers' ends
And needlework will broider them your friends.
Then use those fingers to ensnare those hearts;
Church-decoration special zeal imparts:
Antimacassars, slippers, braces, these
Have had their little day, and fail to please,—
So now with altar-cloths and cushioned seats
Her dear young priest each fair adorer greets,
Making—as fanatics unkindly prove,—
Religion's self the stalking-horse of Love!
112
VI. GUILDS: MORALS: ENGLAND'S RESOLVE.
Join some sly Guild: St. Anything will suit,
St. Sarah Pattens, or St. Jeemes le-Boot,
Martyr, or Virgin, just to tie up tight
Your sworn Society in Riband might:
Secret conspiracy is all your aim;
So, take your oaths, and make your little game;
Together undermining England's soil,
Much mischief may be done by such shrewd toil,
Much to make Protestants—a gain indeed!
Renounce their Hanoverian queen and creed,
Much to dismember and to dissipate
Their odious union of the church and state:
Then, as inquisitors of old could kill
In secret conclave, you may work your will,
Unitedly destroying any man
Whose sturdy patriotism hates your plan;
Pulling him down, as jackals hunt by night
The lion whom by day they fear to fight!
Ay, ay; the Jesuit and Freemason too
Should thus be mingled craftily in you,
That spider's web enmeshing all the land
By—Well! “the wicked joining hand in hand!”
St. Sarah Pattens, or St. Jeemes le-Boot,
Martyr, or Virgin, just to tie up tight
Your sworn Society in Riband might:
Secret conspiracy is all your aim;
So, take your oaths, and make your little game;
Together undermining England's soil,
Much mischief may be done by such shrewd toil,
Much to make Protestants—a gain indeed!
Renounce their Hanoverian queen and creed,
Much to dismember and to dissipate
Their odious union of the church and state:
Then, as inquisitors of old could kill
In secret conclave, you may work your will,
Unitedly destroying any man
Whose sturdy patriotism hates your plan;
Pulling him down, as jackals hunt by night
The lion whom by day they fear to fight!
Ay, ay; the Jesuit and Freemason too
Should thus be mingled craftily in you,
That spider's web enmeshing all the land
By—Well! “the wicked joining hand in hand!”
Your morals: No you mustn't be found out
In things lay fools may make a fuss about:
True; there are many, pure in words and ways,
Of whom it were unjust to hint dispraise;
Ascetic through continual service, still
With Martha's toil a Mary's part they fill:
But, in mere Form, excessive and of course,
Abides—(let Oxford testify its force)
An evil hardening process for the soul
Warping young natures from clean self-control:
And, so much washing argues so much dirt,
And absolution's cheap, without much hurt,
And your confessional is handy,—Yes,
One may as well have something to confess!
And there's Perpetual Celebration too,
Perpetual license to begin anew!
So, keep things quiet, or you stir up strife;
But to force piety on private life
Is just to drag religion from its perch,—
That eagle is a fixture of the church,
Not to be suffered out of doors to roam
With methodists who dare to pray at home,
Nor to be desecrated in the least
Save by continual service, with a priest;
So, chancel work perfunctorily achieved,
Leave your religion there, and feel relieved,
Playing at fast and loose, when out of church,
And leaving morals slightly in the lurch!
In things lay fools may make a fuss about:
True; there are many, pure in words and ways,
Of whom it were unjust to hint dispraise;
113
With Martha's toil a Mary's part they fill:
But, in mere Form, excessive and of course,
Abides—(let Oxford testify its force)
An evil hardening process for the soul
Warping young natures from clean self-control:
And, so much washing argues so much dirt,
And absolution's cheap, without much hurt,
And your confessional is handy,—Yes,
One may as well have something to confess!
And there's Perpetual Celebration too,
Perpetual license to begin anew!
So, keep things quiet, or you stir up strife;
But to force piety on private life
Is just to drag religion from its perch,—
That eagle is a fixture of the church,
Not to be suffered out of doors to roam
With methodists who dare to pray at home,
Nor to be desecrated in the least
Save by continual service, with a priest;
So, chancel work perfunctorily achieved,
Leave your religion there, and feel relieved,
Playing at fast and loose, when out of church,
And leaving morals slightly in the lurch!
All said and done,—how long will English sense
Endure these treasons, and not drive them hence?
How long shall stale old tyrannies be found
Rising again, like phantoms from the ground,
And not be crushed and banished as of yore
By sons of those who routed them before?—
We will not stand it!—Let Belgravians hope
For thraldom, and the blessing of the Pope;
Let fashionables to confession crowd,
And absolution purify the proud;
But England's Mighty People, true and just,
Is mad against such flagrant breach of trust
As many priests, ay, bishops, in church pay
Dare to commit, and think unchecked they may!
Not so!—They leave us,—or they leave behind
Their Romish lies that poison heart and mind;
And, if they still sow treason here at home,
Off with them,—by and in the mass—to Rome!
Endure these treasons, and not drive them hence?
How long shall stale old tyrannies be found
Rising again, like phantoms from the ground,
114
By sons of those who routed them before?—
We will not stand it!—Let Belgravians hope
For thraldom, and the blessing of the Pope;
Let fashionables to confession crowd,
And absolution purify the proud;
But England's Mighty People, true and just,
Is mad against such flagrant breach of trust
As many priests, ay, bishops, in church pay
Dare to commit, and think unchecked they may!
Not so!—They leave us,—or they leave behind
Their Romish lies that poison heart and mind;
And, if they still sow treason here at home,
Off with them,—by and in the mass—to Rome!
| Fifty of the Protestant Ballads | |