Since Reverend Doctors now declare

That clerks and people must prepare

To doubt if Adam ever were;

To hold the flood a local scare;

To argue, though the stolid stare,

That everything had happened ere

The prophets to its happening sware;

That David was no giant-slayer,

Nor one to call a God-obeyer

In certain details we could spare,

But rather was a debonair

Shrewd bandit, skilled as banjo-player:

That Solomon sang the fleshly Fair,

And gave the Church no thought whate’er;

That Esther with her royal wear,

And Mordecai, the son of Jair,

And Joshua’s triumphs, Job’s despair,

And Balaam’s ass’s bitter blare;

Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace-flare,

And Daniel and the den affair,

And other stories rich and rare,

Were writ to make old doctrine wear

Something of a romantic air:

That the Nain widow’s only heir,

And Lazarus with cadaverous glare

(As done in oils by Piombo’s care)

Did not return from Sheol’s lair:

That Jael set a fiendish snare,

That Pontius Pilate acted square,

That never a sword cut Malchus’ ear

And (but for shame I must forbear)

That — — did not reappear! . . .

—Since thus they hint, nor turn a hair,

All churchgoing will I forswear,

And sit on Sundays in my chair,

And read that moderate man Voltaire.