Page:Poems Cook.djvu/363

Thine is the language of a simple creed,
 Whose saving might has no priest-guarded bound:
If soundly learn'd, say would the martyr bleed,
 Or such dense shadows fall on "hallow'd ground?"
Oh, how we boast our knowledge of "the Right;"
But blast the Christian grain with Conduct's blight!

'Tis well to ask our Maker to "forgive
 Our trespasses;" but 'tis as we may bear
The trespasses of those who breathe and live
 Amid the same Temptation, Doubt, and Care.
Oh ye who point so often to the herd,
 Whose dark and evil works are all uncloak'd;
Is there no other than condemning word
 For minds untaught and spirits sorely yoked?
Are ye quite sure no hidden leper taint
Blurs your own skin, if we look through the paint!

Ye throw from ambush!—let Truth's noontide light
 Flash on the strength that nerves such eager aims;
Bring pigmy greatness from its giant height;
 Where would be then the splendour of your names?
Ye harsh denouncers, 'tis an easy thing
 To wrap yourselves in Cunning's specious robes,
And sharpen all the polish'd blades ye fling,
 As though ye held diploma for the probes:
But if the charlatan and knave were dropp'd,
Some spreading trees would be most closely lopp'd.

Ye, that so fiercely show your warring teeth
 At every other being on your way;
Is your own sword so stainless in its sheath,
 That ye can justify the braggart fray?
The tricks of policy—the hold of place—
 The dulcet jargon of a courtly rote—

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