  ’Tis of a rich man near an African hoek, Imported from some part of Britain; You’d say that account in the sixteenth of Luke For him, in perspective, was written. The purple, fine linen, and feasting in state, Are all quite in point to the letter; Save this, that no paupers are laid at his gate, Experience has taught them all better. To lordling and swell, he is all “hand-in-glove,” With manners beseeming high station; Every female in silk has his greeting of love, And low bow—and hat salutation. So much for the wealthy; alas for the poor! When one of that number approaches, Such welcome is found, as the comatose boor Reserves for the foe who encroaches. Our hero has those who describe him indeed, ’Gainst Vice an unsparing declaimer; His name it is needless to write or to read,— What odds be it Dives or Damer! You’ll stare! he is one who on topics divine, Has holiday phrases harmonious; Right Reverend! how many would fondly incline To think the description erroneous! The pulpit he mounts, as the tyrant his throne,— And bawls to the young and the hoary, With a scowl and a gesture, a stamp and a tone Which plainly belie his own story. Does he toil for a master and home in the skies, While in Mammon’s vile services flurried! Pray God that he may never “lift up his eyes” With the “rich man” who “died and was buried.” Stafford Cruikshanks. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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