CV

If thou art sinful, there are thousands then
Who howl from pulpits, and make dreary night
Of texts as barefaced as the morning light,
Who more deserve the Angel's damning pen--
That tribe of bitter and self-righteous men
Who, in God's name, fill earth with wild affright,
Afflict our very virtues with a blight,
Till heaven's great dome becomes a murky den.
No man can say he ever looked on thee,
And from thy presence went not happier far,
Thanking kind Heaven that such as thee there are.
The hidden goodness others boast, we see
Revealed in thee to common sight, as we
See God's own radiance in a tranquil star.