Say, was it to my spirit’s gain or loss,
One bright and balmy morning, as I went
From Liege’s lovely environs to Ghent,
If hard by the wayside I found a cross,
That made me breathe a pray’r upon the spot—­
While Nature of herself, as if to trace
The emblem’s use, had trail’d around its base
The blue significant Forget-me-not? 
Methought, the claims of Charity to urge
More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope,
The pious choice had pitched upon the verge
  Of a delicious slope
Giving the eye much variegated scope;—­
“Look round,” it whisper’d, “on that prospect rare,
Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue;
Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair,
But”—­(how the simple legend pierced me thro’!)
      “PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX.”

With sweet kind natures, as in honey’d cells,
Religion lives, and feels herself at home;
But only on a formal visit dwells
Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb. 
Shun pride, O Rae!—­whatever sort beside
You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride! 
A pride there is of rank—­a pride of birth,
A pride of learning, and a pride of purse,
A London pride—­in short, there be on earth
A host of prides, some better and some worse;
But of all prides, since Lucifer’s attaint,
The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.

To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard,
Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard. 
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff,
In all his pomp of pageantry, as if
He felt “the eyes of Europe” on his tail! 
As for the humble breed retain’d by man,
  He scorns the whole domestic clan—­
  He bows, he bridles,
  He wheels, he sidles,
At last, with stately dodgings, in a corner
He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her
Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan!

  “Look here,” he cries (to give him words),
  “Thou feather’d clay—­thou scum of birds!”
Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes,—­ “Look here, thou vile predestined sinner,
  Doom’d to be roasted for a dinner,
Behold those lovely variegated dyes! 
These are the rainbow colors of the skies,
That Heav’n has shed upon me con amore—­
A Bird of Paradise?—­a pretty story!
I am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick! 
  Look at my crown of glory! 
Thou dingy, dirty, drabbled, draggled jill!” And off goes Partlet, wriggling from a kick, With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!

That little simile exactly paints
How sinners are despised by saints. 
By saints!—­the Hypocrites that ope heav’n’s door
Obsequious to the sinful man of riches—­
But put the wicked, naked, barelegg’d poor
  In parish stocks instead of breeches.

The Saints!—­the Bigots that in public spout,
Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian,
And go like walking “Lucifers” about
  Mere living bundles of combustion.