Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 13, Issue 678, 3 May 1869, Page 2 (Supplement)

Select Poetry.

MY CHURCH IN TOWN. WY\ y church in town! It fronts our square, M With gothic portals—Scott designer— Tall spire, and painted windows rare, There's nothing in all London A church that's counted "very high, A ritualistic rector owning, Who makes a claim to Heaven rely On crosses, candles, and intoning. And crowds of worshippers come there. Who give one morning of the seven To treadin?, with exceeding care, A fashionable road to Heaven. Fine ladies who low bending pray, And sigh for services in Latin, And mortify the flesh each day, In gleaming robes of silk and satin. The curate—" such a dear," you knowAirs a white hand to turn his pages ; I hardly think St. Paul did so. When preaching to Athenian sages. His doctrine, if it have a fault, Stands much in need of force and flavor. And makes m e think the Gospel salt Has very nearly lost its savor. "Where Dives sits, I look in vain For Lazarus, even at the portal,— I wonder, does ther creed maintain The rich man only is immortal? And yet my mind is somewhat eased: So vain and vapid is the preaching, That Lazarus hardly would be pleased To gather fragments of such teaching. It would be worthier of the times, And talk of charitable graces, If we took care the Sunday chimes Should sometimes sound in silent places. The broidered altar-cloth might tell Of pious hands, and yet be plainer: A simpler, homelier rite were well, So should the poor man be a gainer. —All the Tear Round.