HYPOCRISY

The Triumph of Infidelity

Here stood Hypocrisy, in sober brown,

His sabbath face all sorrow'd with a frown.

A dismal tale he told of dismal times,

And this sad world brimful (Overfull) of saddest crimes;

Furrowed (Wrinkled) his cheeks with tears for others' sin,

But closed his eyelids on the hell within.

There smiled the smooth Divine, unused to wound

The sinner's heart with hell's alarming sound.

No terrors on his gentle tongue attend,

No grating (Harsh) truths the nicest ear offend.

That strange "New Birth", that methodistic "Grace"

Nor in his heart, nor sermons, found a place.

Plato's fine tales he clumsily retold,

Trite, fireside, moral see-saws, dull as old;

His Christ and Bible placed at good remove

Guilt hell-deserving, and forgiving love.

'Twas best, he said, mankind should cease to sin;

Good fame required it; so did peace within.

Their honours, well he knew, would ne'er be driven;

But hoped they still would please to go to heaven.

Each week, he paid his visitation dues;

Coaxed, jested, laughed; rehearsed the private news;

Smoked with each goody, thought her cheese excelled;

Her pipe he lighted, and her baby held.

Or placed in some great town, with lacquered shoes,

Trim wig, and trimmer gown, and glistening hose,

He bowed, talked politics, learned manners mild;

Most meekly questioned, and most smoothly smiled;

At rich men's jests laughed loud, their stories praised;

Their wives' new patterns gazed, and gazed, and gazed;

Most daintily (Elegantly) on pampered turkeys dined;

Nor shrunk with fasting, nor with study pined:

Yet from their churches saw his brethren driven

Who thundered truth and spoke the voice of heaven,

Chilled trembling guilt, in Satan's headlong path

Charmed the feet back, and roused the ear of death.

"Let fools", he cried, "starve on, while prudent I

Snug in my nest shall live, and snug shall die."

There stood the infidel of modern breed,

Blest vegetation of infernal seed.

Alike no Deist, and no Christian, he;

But from all principle, all virtue, free.

To him all things the same, as good or evil:

Jehovah, Jove, the Lama, or the Devil;

Mohammed's braying, or Isaiah's lays;

The Indian's pow-wows; or the Christian's praise.

With him all natural desires are good:

His thrist for stews; the Mohawk's thirst for blood,

Made not to know, or love, the all-beauteous mind

Or wing through heaven his path to bliss refined.

But his dear self, choice Dagon! to adore;

To dress, to game, to swear, to drink, to whore;

To race his steeds; or cheat, when others run;

Pit tortured cocks, and swear 'tis glorious fun.

His soul not clothed with attributes divine

But a nice watch-spring to that grand machine,

That work more nice than Rittenhouse can plan;

The body; man's chief part; himself, the man;

Man, that illustrious brute of noblest shape,

A swine unbristled, and an untailed ape.

To couple, eat, and die— his glorious doom:

The oyster's churchyard, and the capon's tomb.

Timothy Dwight （1752-1817）

American clergyman, educator & poet [1]

[1]James C.M. Yu. Applied Theology(t). Lim Jui Khiang.