 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
274
ROMISH PRIESTCRAFT.—1851.
What! after all our charitable pains,And long conciliation's liberal hope,
Can we endure to see this subtle Pope
Scheming to bind our freedom in his chains?
Ungrateful, feeble, and perfidious knave!
Never again through Britain's fair domains
Shall tyrannous old priestcraft make us grope
In thy dark deep of Intellect's own grave,—
Never again shalt thou the Mind enslave!
And yet, who knoweth? haply for awhile,
The penalty for gifts and grace abused,
Some weaklings may be cozened by thy guile,
Trick'd at thy boldness, with thy pomps amused,
And fascinated by thy serpent smile!
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |