TO AN ANGRY ZEALOT

If of Religion I have made a sport,

Then why not cite me to the Bishop's Court?

Fair to the world let every page be set,

And prove your charge from all I've said and writ:—

What if this heart no narrow notions bind,

Its pure good-will extends to all mankind:

Suppose I ask no portion from your feast,

Nor heaven-ward ride behind your parish priest,

Because I wear not Shylock's Sunday face

Must I, for that, be loaded with disgrace?

The time has been,— the time, I fear, is now,

When holy phrenzy would erect her brow,

Round some poor wight with painted devils meet,

And worse than Smithfield blaze through every street;

But wholesome laws prevent such horrid scenes,

No more afraid of deacons and of deans,

In this new world our joyful Psalm we sing

That Even a Bishop is a Harmless Thing!