BATS IN SUNSHINE

Well, Mr. Kemble, you are called, I think,

A great divine, and I'm a great profane.

You as a Congregationalist blink

Some certain truths that I esteem a gain,

And drop them in the coffers of my brain,

Pleased with the pretty music of their chink.

Perhaps your spiritual wealth is such

A golden truth or two do n't count for much.

You say that you've no patience with such stuff

As by Rénan is writ, and when you read

( Why do you read? ) have hardly strength enough

To hold your hand from flinging the vile screed

Into the fire. That were a wasteful deed

Which you'd repent in sackcloth extra rough;

For books cost money, and I'm told you care

To lay up treasures Here as well as There.

I fear, good, pious soul, that you mistake

Your thrift for toleration. Never mind:

Rénan in any case would hardly break

His great, strong, charitable heart to find

The bats and owls of your myopic kind

Pained by the light that his ideas make.

‘ Tis Truth's best purpose to shine in at holes

Where cower the Kembles, to confound their souls!