A hireling's wages to the priest are paid; While lives and dies, in want and rags, the bard! But preaching ought to be its own reward, And not a sordid, if an honest trade. Paul, laboring proudly with his hands, arrayed Regenerated hearts in peace and love; And when, with power, they preached the mystic dove,
Penn, Barclay, Clarkson, asked not Mammon's aid. As, for its own sake, poetry is sweet To poets--so, on tasks of mercy bound, Religion travels with unsandaled feet, Making the flinty desert holy ground; And never will her triumph be complete While one paid pilgrim upon earth is found.