Saturday Suck: Why Separation of Church and State May Be a Good Idea for Verse

I went on a bit of a poetry binge today, emerging with some Robert Hayden, Hilda Doolittle, a book on prosody, Randall Jarrell's critical essays "Poetry and the Age"... And "The Stuffed Owl: An Anthology of Bad Verse."


I can't tell you how pleased I was to find Isaac Watts included among the other supernumerary luminaries. No offense to those who are attached to the collected works of Wesley, Watts and Fanny Crosby, but the lyrics to hymns (especially the bulk of those written between 1700 and 2010) have always to me seemed to possess only the slightest literary (and to my mind, devotional) value.


As C.S. Lewis wrote: "I considered [hymns] to be fifth-rate poems set to sixth-rate music."  If it indeed requires a fifth-rate poet to recognize a fifth-rate poem, Lewis may be considered an expert on the subject.









I find it somewhat comforting, then, to realize that Mr. Watts' poetry is just as flaccid, staid and unpleasant as his hymns. Here, we get to see his reactionary politics and his religious fervor get conflated to a sufficient degree to cause Glenn Beck to chortle with glee.

On the Landing of William III

Isaac Watts

'Tis done ! they cried, and laugh'd aloud, 
The courts of darkness rang with joy, 
The' old serpent hiss'd, and Hell grew proud. 
While Zion niourn'd her ruin nigh. 


But, lo! the great Deliverer sails, 
Comission'd from Jehovah's hand, 
And smiling seas, and wishing gales,  
Convey him to the longing land. 


The happy day, and happy year, 
Both in our new salvation meet : 
The day that quench'd the burning snare, 
The year that burn'd the' invading fleet


Now did thine arm, O God of hosts ! 
Now did thine arm shine dazzling bright, 
The sons of might their hands had lost. 
And men of blood forgot to fight. 


Brigades of angels lined the way. 
And guarded William to his throne ; 
There, ye celestial warriors, stay. 
And make his palace like your own. 


Then, mighty God, the earth shall know 
And learn the worship of the sky : 
Angels and Britons join below, 
To raise their hallelujahs high. 


All hallelujah, heavenly King! 
While distant lands thy victory sing. 
And tongues their utmost powers employ. 
The world's bright roof repeats the joy. 




It's one thing to offer God praise that your side won. It's quite another to claim Satan is the other guys' head honcho and your guy's coronation is equivalent to the last chapter of Revelations. Good thing 24-hour news poetry networks were not (and have yet to be) invented.