17 AUGUST 1878, Page 14

TO AN ICONOCLASTIC POET. FIGHT not dead gods, nor think

the incense-cloud Which in our day hides the Eternal Face Comes from a priestly hand. The heavenly grace Thou see'st in a bare room or city's crowd, Abides no less within the costliest fane Which humble worshippers with patience rear To speak their thought, and tell them God is near. They have done what they could, and not in vain. But love of wealth and of luxurious ease,— These are our idols now. Poet, fight these !