A Word In Season

They have a superstition in the East, That ALLAH, written on a piece of paper, Is better unction than can come of priest, Of rolling incense, and of lighted taper: Holding, that any scrap which bears that name, In any characters, its front imprest on, Shall help the finder through the purging flame, And give his toasted feet a place to rest on.

Accordingly, they make a mighty fuss With ev'ry wretched tract and fierce oration, And hoard the leaves--for they are not, like us, A highly civilized and thinking nation: And, always stooping in the miry ways, To look for matter of this earthy leaven, They seldom, in their dust-exploring days, Have any leisure to look up to Heaven.

So have I known a country on the earth, Where darkness sat upon the living waters, And brutal ignorance, and toil, and dearth Were the hard portion of its sons and daughters: And yet, where they who should have ope'd the door Of charity and light, for all men's finding, Squabbled for words upon the altar-floor, And rent the Book, in struggles for the binding.

The gentlest man among these pious Turks, God's living image ruthlessly defaces; Their best high-churchman, with no faith in works, Bowstrings the Virtues in the market-places: The Christian Pariah, whom both sects curse (They curse all other men, and curse each other), Walks thro' the world, not very much the worse-- Does all the good he can, and loves his brother.