On Political Sermons

When parsons preach on politics, pray why Should declamation cease, if you go by?

We heard a lecture, or a scold, And, doubtful which it might be call'd, But senseless as the bell that toll'd, And pleasing neither young nor old.

We kept our seats amid the din, Then quit the field, with all our sin, Just as good as we went in.

Tell me what the preacher said, Ye, who somewhat longer stay'd Till the last address was made:--

Why,--he talk'd of ruin'd states, Demagogues and democrates, Falling stars, and Satan's baits.

Did he mention nothing more?-- Simply, what he said before-- Repetitions, twenty score.

His arguments could nothing prove, His text alarm'd the sacred grove, His prayer displeased the powers above.

He would not pray for those who rule, But hoped that in Bethesda's pool They all might dip, to make them cool.

He deprecated blood and war, Its many mischiefs did deplore Except when England mounts the car.

At Congress he had such a fling, As plainly show'd, he wish'd a king, Might here arrive, on Vulture's wing;

And that himself an horn might blow To shake our modern Jericho, And bring its ramparts very low.

To english notes his psalm was sung, With politics the pulpit rung, And thrice was bellow'd from his tongue, "The president is always wrong!

"He brought these evils on our land, And he must go--the time's at hand-- With Bonaparte to take his stand."--

Must not the wheels of fate go on? Must not the lion's teeth be drawn, Because it suits not Prester John!--

A Bishop's Lawn is such a prize Such virtue in a mitre lies, Democracy before it flies.

And these he hopes, if George prevails, In time may hoist his shorten'd sails And waft him on, with fortune's gales.

To gain by preaching, nett and clear, Some twenty hundred pounds a year; Which democrats would never bear.

To England why so much a friend, Or why her cause with heat defend?-- There is, no doubt, some selfish end.

Dear Momus come, and help me laugh-- This England is the stay and staff Of true religion--more than half!

She is the prop of all that's good, A bulwark, which for ages stood To guard the path and mark the road!

One proof of which can soon be brought, The temple rais'd to Jaggernaut,[A] And India to his temple brought,

[A] The temple of Jaggernaut, an idolatrous establishment in India, to the support of which the english government contributed largely. The unwieldy idol, to which the temple is dedicated, is, on certain days, carried about the streets on a huge carriage, under the wheels of which the superstitious multitude, it is said, suffer themselves to be trampled and crushed to pieces, by hundreds, from a superstitious motive. If this be not fiction, may the british government exert its influence to eradicate so barbarous and bloody a superstition from the minds of millions of idolatrous wretches.--Freneau's note.

To see her murder'd, mangled sons, To worship idols, stocks, and stones, Or reliques of some scoundrel's bones.

And "long may heaven on England smile-- (So says our preacher, all the while) The world's last hope, fast anchor'd isle!"--

Religion there is made no sport, State tailors there have deckt her out In a birth-day suit--to go to court!--