Shame on thee, Christian, cold and covetous one!
The laws (I praise them not for this) declare
That ancient, loved, deserted house of prayer
As money's worth a layman landlord's own.
Then use it as thine own; thy mansion there
Beneath the shadow of this ruinous church
Stands new and decorate; thine every shed
And barn is neat and proper; I might search
Thy comfortable farms, and well despair
Of finding dangerous ruin overhead,
And damp unwholesome mildew on the walls:
Arouse thy better self: restore it; see,
Through thy neglect the holy fabric falls!
Fear, lest that crushing guilt should fall on thee.
I fear much, poor book, this finale of jingling singing will jar upon
the public ear; all men must shrink from a lengthy snake with a rattle
in its tail: and this ballast a-stern of over-ponderous poetry may
chance to swamp so frail a skiff. But I have promised a dozen sonnets in
this after-thought Appendix; yea, and I will keep that promise at all
mortal hazards, even to the superadded unit proverbial of dispensing
Fornarinas. Ten have been told off fairly, and now we come upon the gay
court-cards. After so much of villanous political ferment, society
returns at length to its every-day routine, heedful of other oratory
than harangues from the hustings, and glad of other reading than
figurative party-speeches. Yet am I bold to recur, just for a thought or
two, to my whilom patriotic hopes and fears: fears indeed came first
upon me, but hopes finally out-voted them: briefly, then, begin upon the
worst, and endure, with what patience you possess, this creaky stave of
bitter