Classic Poem

O Sophistry! how many lips have kiss'd
And fondled thy puft hand, bedaub'd with ink
Of the ‘higher criticism,’ which does not shrink
To substitute, for our sound faith in Christ,
A dreamy, hollow, unsubstantial creed:
Strikes its small penknife through the covenants
Both old and new, and, in a trice, supplants
Without replacing, all we love and need;
How blank will be thy scholarly regret
To see these blurr'd and shredded Gospels mount
Beyond the knives and ink-horns!—buoyant yet
With native strength, of which thou madest no count,
And, as heaven's lively oracles, confest
By all, disprove, perforce, each lying test.