 | English Roses |  |
THE PROTESTANT.
Erring often,Always thorough
With a moral and a mode
Which no time or turn will soften;
As if wisdom were his code
And no other's, and his plan
Just the only way for man,
And all heaven his rotten borough.
Yes, he blunders
Terribly, and tires his friends
With the old familiar ends
Which we know alas! too well,
And the little throes and thunders
Dooming half the world to hell.
Yet he does believe, as few,
Still in something and a God
Though for ever with a rod
To reduce us to his level,
And indeed more like the devil
Whom we rather would eschew.
But despite his petty range,
He has marrow
With the rant,
Bone and muscle in his strange
Medley of ill-mated lore
From an unhistoric store;
537
Protestant.
| English Roses | |