God's tender gospel! Lacks it still
Memorial? Lo! a miracle!

New England blossoms! far hath come
The wafture of that rare perfume—

Right under Edward's heels! a man
And very brother!—Jonathan!

Who clasped all virtues in a—vice;
Whose hate was flame, whose love was ice,
Whose whole evangel—sacrifice!

Who blamed high Heaven, the good-dispenser,
And hell, as quite too small a censer

For him to swing! the (self-) “elect,”
High-priest—head-devil of his sect,

How many tortured souls to-day,
Flayed through the fire, to Baal say:

Pass, brimstone! and Kathrina rise,
Christ's pitying mercy in thine eyes.

Cool, cauldron! let the blasted heath
Taste of the summer in her breath!

Vanish the witches! Night, unbar
Before these feet whose shinings are
At once of lily and of star.

Only tried manhood may express
True woman's tireless tenderness;

And had these wishes wings of flight
Beyond this wizard-haunted night,

In blessings on the tried and true,
Dear Doctor, they should “light on you.”