The stars recede, the morn appears,
So long anticipated!
The air which now the spirit cheers,
With shouts is agitated!
The rustics full of mirth and glee,
Are big with expectation,
Of what they are to hear and see,
When they're at Confirmation!
The road is fill'd from side to side,
With bonny lads and lasses;
With country bloom, and village pride,
Gigs, horses, mules, and asses!
With whip and spur, they dash along,
As though to fair or races;
With artificial feathers hung,
And veils before their faces!
But few know what they're going to do,
Or they are strangely lied on;
They're careless of the solemn vow,
As is the steed they ride on!
They go, because their neighbours go,
Without consideration;
And think all pass for Christians, who
Are pass'd at Confirmation!
A few there are, but few we fear,
Their faith by works expressing;
And oft in private on their knees,
They wrestle for a blessing!
The greater part of them by far,
Will carry a Cain's offering;
They're strangers to the morning star,
To royal David's offspring!
A hope they have, but cannot tell
On what that hope is grounded;—
Thus like some old Egyptian spell,
It cannot be expounded!
The carnal mind still bears the sway,
For want of resolution;
And scatter'd tribes, still day by day,
Profane the institution!
In spite of lectures orthodox,
Of Bishops, prayers, and caution,
They, greedy as the thirsty ox,
Drink in the deadly potion!
The scribes may write with mournful pen,
The Church's lamentation;
While year by year, they seek in vain,
The fruits of Confirmation!