The Ritualist
By Bret Harte (Francis)
He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met;
A stole and snowy alb likewise, I recollect it yet.
He called me daughter, as he raised his jeweled hand to bless;
And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, Would I confess?
O mother dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees
I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise;
Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx,
I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.
The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak,
And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct cheek;
And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes,
May term his mixed chalice grog, his vestments petticoats;
But, whatsoeer they do or say, Ill build a Christians hope
On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope.
Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess:
His cant be wrong thats symbolized by such becoming dress.