To M. J. McW.

Rare spirit in our wordly halls,
Where Mammon's footstep loudest falls!
Quaint relic of the Middle Age!
Yours is the grand, unreasoned rage,
The ardour, that in days of yore
Oft kindled the religious war.
Your fire it was that martyrs fought,
Who said exactly what they thought.

If Providence had favoured me
With your straightforward piety,
I'd turn and thank kind Heav'n again,
For simple mind, for stagnant brain,
For purpose undeterred by rumour,
For freedom from a sense of humour,
And censure them as devil-taught
Who said exactly what they thought.

Had I the colours to portray
Your straight and very narrow way,
Your process of extracting truth
By curbing unsagacious youth,
Your cry for Proofs to lead the blind,
While somehow yours get left behind—
Had I the fire of passion caught,
I'd say exactly what I thought!

—D.J.D.