James Thomson's zinger

Inspired by Wittingshire's bit on Longfellow (see earlier post), I pulled a poetry book off the shelf. (Poetry of the Victorian Period, Third Edition, Jerome Hamilton Buckley and George Benjamin Woods, published by Scott, Foresman and Company, 1965). I opened it at random, and got something long and dreary. So I opened it a second time at random, to page 582 (which is roughly halfway through the book), and came across this:

JAMES THOMSON (1834-1882)

ONCE IN A SAINTLY PASSION

Once in a saintly passion
I cried with desperate grief
"O Lord, my heart is black with guile,
Of sinners I am chief."
Then stooped my guardian angel
And whispered from behind,
"Vanity, my little man,
You're nothing of the kind."

Oh, ouch.