Are they at one, and do they all unite
To hear the Gospel and to spread its light?

Unite, you say, and are they all at one,
You cannot be in earnest, but in fun!
When Churchmen are at one we hope to see
Both cat and dog and day and night agree,
Into four parts our Church is separated,
Each by the other is most nobly hated,
Each would deny salvation to the other,
Yet all profess the Church to be their mother.
Poor Church! alas, her days are almost pass’d!
They well may say the Church is breaking fast!
The only wonder is, amid the schisms
By which she's split into so many isms,
She isn't actually killed outright,
Borne to the wall amid the general fight.

But let us these four tribes in order name,
And give a short description of the same:
Well! first we think we must place Puseyites;
Next Evangelicals, once called New Lights;
The third class springs from the old Dry Bone school;
The fourth do not conform to any rule,

But talk great things about the Gospel's freedom, And choose with Lot to go and live in Sodom.

Aside! Here comes the solemn Puseyite,
Veiled in a cloud of dim, religious light;
The Holy Spirit's grand illuminations,
He thinks, are nought without his decorations,
Nor dreams of making Jesus Christ his head,
Except in painted panes of blue and red.
Ask for his creed? Alas! It's in the lurch,
All vanished, save—the Apostolic Church;
Then do his priests fill Simon Peter's chariot,
Oh! no, not his, but that of St. Iscariot;
And 'tis from him they have (now, what's the ex-

Their-Apostolic (ah! that's it) Succession.
'Tis not from Father Paul or John or James
Our modern Puseyites deduce their claims;
These did'nt bow sufficient at their prayers,
Nor after service loll in

chairs; St. Paul washed new-born souls in ample rivers, Nor sprinkled new-born babes for mock believers; St. Paul to Scripture gives the prime position, The Puseyite says Church and her tradition.


We are not told St. Peter preached Christ's blood,
Attired in surplice, cassock, gown, or hood;
The thought of this would make our heroes shiver,
They would not count St. John a true believer,
But say, that if in Heaven he finds a place,
It is by God's_uncovenanted grace!

Uncovenanted grace! Now, what's amiss ?
Our Evangelical starts up at this.
This class are really doctrinally sound;
It is through them the Church can keep her ground,
And, therefore, like most people of great use,
They always meet with very great abuse.
Does the good Vicar go to see the poor,
As was our Saviour's practice to be sure,
'Twere better, say his friends, with solemn face,
Instead of gadding that way round the place,
And wasting time in such a needless search,
To give us daily service in the Church.
Suppose he does, they tell him very quick,
'Tis really shocking to neglect the sick;
Wherefore, to shew their just disapprobation,
The clerk and beadle form his congregation.
His sermons next are duly criticised:
First Mrs. Smith observes, she's much surprised,

But really she must term his last oration
By no means sound on Jesus' Mediation.
Then Mr. Dobbs remarks,-he's much too high,
He thinks his doctrine verged on Popery.
Next Sunday he's unfortunately low,-
They'd just as well, they think, to chapel go ;
So altogether their conclusion is,
He's not the man for such a place as this.
Yet so it is, this good man's rectitude
Is oft mixed up with this mixed multitude,
Wherefore, to make a fair discrimination,
Of this mixed class we'll give an explanation.
They can talk well, when they can have their say;
They can work well, when they can have their way;
To aid a Church at home they will refuse,
Yet spend a pound o'er unconverted Jews.
With princely pride these people millions gave
To liberate th' oppressed Jamaican slave,
To balance this, confine in Mammon's cages
Our helpless poor, and hoard their hard-earned wages.
And here the ladies too must have their share:
They can work wonders for a fancy fair,
Hem handkerchiefs, dress dolls, knit babies' shoes,
To save a dozen of remote Hindoos;

Tell them of sisters dying day by day,
To deck the dress in which they look so gay;
Shew them their pallid faces, cheerless gloom,
Point out their sad, but sure, consumptive doom ;
The answer is,-Indeed we don't intend it,
But do not think our influence can mend it.
True charity, we know, begins at home,
Nor needs for proper objects far to roam;
Besides, we call it theft to give away
The wherewithal our honest debts to pay,
And say,-Don’t lavish on the Indian slave
The money our own English poor should have.

The Multitudinous his neighbour loves,
His every

fault with kind concern reproves, And though to infringe the ninth command would

fear, Can oft with grace a spice of scandal hear: How Mrs. A. has acted very ill, And Mr. B. has left an unjust will; They tell you oft how very vexed they feel, Descant upon the business with great zeal, And then conclude,—“For his poor children's sake I hope to hear the matter's a mistake;

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