When such men triumph, make me rend my hair.
How long shall folk this infamy endure--
That _he_ should be held sacred, _he_ divine,
Who strips e'en corpses in the graveyard bare?



XXXVII.

_ON THE LORD'S PRAYER._

No. I.

_Vilissima progenie._


Ye vile offscourings! with unblushing face
Dare ye claim sonship to our heavenly Sire,
Who serve brute vices, crouching in the mire
To hounds and conies, beasts that ape our race?
Such truckling is called virtue by the base
Hucksters of sophistry, the priest and friar,--
Gilt claws of tyrant brutes,--who lie for hire,
Preaching that God delights in this disgrace.
Look well, ye brainless folk! Do fathers hold
Their children slaves to serfs? Do sheep obey
The witless ram? Why make a beast your king?
If there are no archangels, let your fold
Be governed by the sense of all: why stray
From men to worship every filthy thing?