Well, Mr. Kemble, you are called, I think,
    A great divine, and I'm a great profane.
  You as a Congregationalist blink
    Some certain truths that I esteem a gain,
    And drop them in the coffers of my brain,
  Pleased with the pretty music of their chink.
  Perhaps your spiritual wealth is such
  A golden truth or two don't count for much.

  You say that you've no patience with such stuff
    As by Rinan is writ, and when you read
  (Why do you read?) have hardly strength enough
    To hold your hand from flinging the vile screed
    Into the fire. That were a wasteful deed
  Which you'd repent in sackcloth extra rough;
  For books cost money, and I'm told you care
  To lay up treasures Here as well as There.

  I fear, good, pious soul, that you mistake
    Your thrift for toleration. Never mind:
  Rinan in any case would hardly break
    His great, strong, charitable heart to find
    The bats and owls of your myopic kind
  Pained by the light that his ideas make.
  'Tis Truth's best purpose to shine in at holes
  Where cower the Kembles, to confound their souls!