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89
THE ENGLISH SABBATH
Smith in the week was dull enough, God knows,But doubly dull upon the Sabbath grows.
An iron gong invites that soul of tin,
A soul too grey for splendour of a sin.
Sure of a heaven, he hears the tinkling bell,
But has not yet ascended to a Hell.
What weight is this that heavier makes the air?
Hush! 'Tis the load of Smith's ascended prayer
Recoiling back on him from Sabbath cloud,
Returning on him though his knee be bowed.
Each week-day Smith respectably can thieve
But on the Sabbath would his God deceive.
He kneels to pray, but ere his prayer has ceased
Rises in fear his breeches may be creased;
Later his wife from mundane matters free,
Purring her Sabbath scandal pours the tea.
O for some winnowing blast to swirl away
The mouldering mummery of our Sabbath-day!
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