The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume I Part 42

11

An honest sire, who came in luckless hour To hear the sermon and to see the dead, Presuming on this consecrated hour, Ventur'd to check the parson on that head.

12

Quoth he, "My priest, such conduct is not fit, "For other speech this solemn hour demands: "What if your parish owes its annual debt, "Your parish ready to discharge it stands."

13

No more he said--for charg'd with wounds and pain, The parson's staff, like Jove's own lightning, flew, Which cleft his jaw-bone and his cheek in twain, And from their sockets half his grinders drew.

14

Nor less deceas'd some moments lay the sire Than if from heav'n the forked lightnings thrown Had pierc'd him with their instantaneous fire, And sent him smoking to the world unknown.

15

At last he mov'd, and, weltering in his gore.

Thus did the rueful, wounded victim say, "Convey me hence--so b.l.o.o.d.y and so sore "I cannot wait to hear the parson pray;

16

"And if I did, what pleasure could be mine-- "Can he allure me to the world of bliss-- "Can he present me at the heavenly shrine "Who breaks my bones, and knocks me down in this?

17

"The scripture says--the text I well recall-- "_A Priest or Bishop must no striker be_, "Then how can such a wicked priest but fall, "Who at a funeral thus has murdered me?"

18

Thus he--But now the sumptuous dinner came, The Levite; boldly seiz'd the n.o.bler place, Beside him sate the woe-struck widow'd dame, Who help'd him drain the brimful china vase.

19

Which now renew'd, he drank that ocean too, Like Polypheme, the boon Ulysses gave; Another came, nor did another do, For still another did the monster crave.

20

With far-fetch'd dainties he regal'd his maw, And prais'd the various meats that crown'd the board: On tender capons did the glutton gnaw, And well his platter with profusion stor'd.

21

But spoke no words of grace--I mark'd him well, I fix'd my eye upon his brazen brow-- He look'd like Satan aiming to rebel, Such pride and madness were his inmates now.

22

But not contented with this hectoring priest, Sick of his nonsense, softly I withdrew, And at a calmer table shar'd the feast, To sorrow sacred, and to friendship due.

23

Which now atchiev'd, the tolling bell remote Summon'd the living and the dead to come, And through the dying sea-breeze swell'd the note, Dull on the ear, and lengthening through the gloom.

24

The bier was brought, the costly coffin laid, And prayers were mutter'd in a doleful tone, While the sad pall, above the body spread, From many a tender breast drew many a groan.

25

The Levite, too, some tears of Bacchus shed-- Reeling before the long procession, he Strode like a general at his army's head, His gown in tatters, and his wig--ah me!

26

The words of faith in both his hands he bore, Prayers, cut and dry, by ancient prelates made, Who, bigots while they liv'd, could do no more Than leave them still by bigots to be said.

27

But he admir'd them all!--he read with joy St. Athanasius in his thundering creed, And curs'd the men whom Satan did employ To make King Charles, that heav'n-born martyr, bleed.

28

At last they reach'd the spiry building high, And soon they enter'd at the eastern gate-- The parson said his prayers most learnedly, And mutter'd more than memory can relate.

29

Then through the temple's lengthy aisles they went, Approaching still the pulpit's painted door, From whence, on Sundays, many a vow was sent, And sermons plunder'd from some prelate's store.

30

Here, as of right, the priest prepar'd to rise, And leave the corpse and gaping crowd below, Like sultry Phoebus glar'd his flaming eyes, Less fierce the stars of Greenland evenings glow.

31

Up to the pulpit strode he with an air, And from the Preacher thus his text he read: "More I esteem, and better is by far "A dog existing than a lion dead.

32

"Go, eat thy dainties with a joyful heart, "And quaff thy wine with undissembled glee, "For he who did these heavenly gifts impart "Accepts thy prayers, thy gifts, thy vows, and thee."

THE SERMON

33

These truths, my friends, congenial to my soul, Demand a faithful and attentive ear-- No longer for your 'parted friend condole, No longer shed the tributary tear.

34

Curs'd be the sobs, these useless floods of woe That vainly flow for the departed dead-- If doom'd to wander on the coasts below, What are to him these seas of grief you shed?