FROM TOP TO BOTTOM[Japan has 73,759 Buddhist priests, "most of whom," says aChristian missionary, "are grossly ignorant, and many of themlead scandalous lives."]O Buddha, had you but foreknownThe vices of your priesthoodIt would have made you twist and moanAs any wounded beast would.You would have damned the entire lotAnd turned a Christian, would you not?There were no Christians, I'll allow,In your day; that would onlyHave brought distinction. Even nowA Christian might feel lonely.All take the name, but facts are thingsAs stubborn as the will of kings.The priests were ignorant and lowWhen ridiculed by Lucian;The records, could we read, might showThe same of times Confucian.And yet the fact I can't disguiseThat Deacon Rankin's good and wise.'Tis true he is not quite a priest,Nor more than half a preacher;But he exhorts as loud at leastAs any living creature.And when the plate is passed aboutHe never takes a penny out.From Buddha down to Rankin! There,—I never did intend to.This pen's a buzzard's quill, I swear,Such subjects to descend to.When from the humming-bird I've wrungA plume I'll write of Mike de Young.
[Japan has 73,759 Buddhist priests, "most of whom," says aChristian missionary, "are grossly ignorant, and many of themlead scandalous lives."]
O Buddha, had you but foreknownThe vices of your priesthoodIt would have made you twist and moanAs any wounded beast would.You would have damned the entire lotAnd turned a Christian, would you not?There were no Christians, I'll allow,In your day; that would onlyHave brought distinction. Even nowA Christian might feel lonely.All take the name, but facts are thingsAs stubborn as the will of kings.The priests were ignorant and lowWhen ridiculed by Lucian;The records, could we read, might showThe same of times Confucian.And yet the fact I can't disguiseThat Deacon Rankin's good and wise.'Tis true he is not quite a priest,Nor more than half a preacher;But he exhorts as loud at leastAs any living creature.And when the plate is passed aboutHe never takes a penny out.From Buddha down to Rankin! There,—I never did intend to.This pen's a buzzard's quill, I swear,Such subjects to descend to.When from the humming-bird I've wrungA plume I'll write of Mike de Young.