POETRY. 425 



'Tis not the priest's, in glittering shew, 



That at the sanctuarv' b:nv, 



Whilst, offspring of their magic hands, 



A present deity acknowledg'd stands : 



'Tis not the yonng and beauienns band, 



Before the holy place who stand. 



Like Samuel's sons of early grace, 



Th* * Acolothists' well-nurtur'd race, 



Who, taught from life's first blushing morn 



These sacred functions to adorn, 



W^ith steady step and decent mien 



Add lustre to the solemn scene ; 



'Tis not each effort to express 



The charms and grace of holiness, 



That, to its destination true. 



This lovely spot can bring to view ; 



'Tis not Ribera's f wonderous art 



Such power to canvas to impart. 



As gi-and in form, and bright in hue, 



To bring to our astonished view 



The Lord of Life, torn, pale, and dead. 



Who for vile man's transgressions bled. 



Whilst weeping angels hovering o'er, 



The mystery of love explore : 



'Tis not, my girls, such things as these 



That for your faith destroy my ease ; — ^ « 



Your minds, I know, from earliest youth. 



So trained to wisdom and to truth. 



From your externals can command 



The proper notice they demand. 



Yet one thing frightens me, I own. 



Secure of all, but that alone — 



The noble tenants of the place 



My fears alarm, my quiet chase ; 



Their piety without pretence, 



'I'heir goodness, their benevolence ; 



I'heir minds unspoil'd by wealth or state 



(Those common tempters of the great) ; 



Their charity, that knows no bound, 



Where man and misery are found. 



And cherishes, in these sad times. 



The unfortunate of other climes 5 



Priests, from their native altars torn, 



Their ruffian country's jest and scorn. , 



• The atten<lanis on the piiesife at the altar, m cal^e*!- 

 I Spagnolf t, to called. YoUT 



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