[Commissioner of Pensions Dudley has
established a Sunday-school and declares he will remove
any clerk in his department who does not regularly
attend.—N.Y. World.]
Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and
note,
Worthy of honor from a feeble
pen
Blunted in service of all
true, good men,
You serve the Lord—in courses,
table d’hôte:
Au, naturel, as well as à la Nick—
“Eat and be thankful,
though it make you sick.”
O, truly pious caterer, forbear
To push the Saviour and Him
crucified
(Brochette you’d
call it) into their inside
Who’re all unused to such ambrosial
fare.
The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion
Of aught that it has taken on compulsion.
I search the Scriptures, but I do not
find
That e’er the Spirit
beats with angry wings
For entrance to the heart,
but sits and sings
To charm away the scruples of the mind.
It says: “Receive me, please;
I’ll not compel”—
Though if you don’t you will go
straight to Hell!
Well, that’s compulsion, you will
say. ’T is true:
We cower timidly beneath the
rod
Lifted in menace by an angry
God,
But won’t endure it from an ape
like you.
Detested simian with thumb prehensile,
Switch me and I would brain you
with my pencil!
Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn
your back
On its transplendency to flog
some wight
Who gropes and stumbles in
the infernal night
Your ugly shadow lays along his track.
O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the
sin,
Behold what rascals try to scourge it
in!
