Where man his standard of perfection rears,
The Divel there asserts his right to reign!
Thus, Priestly Bigots with truth in arrears,
Themselves exert, contracting the domain
Of heavenly freedom: while their victims gain’d
Are soul degraded, full of creature-fears:
Yes, round their souls vile superstition’s mesh
Is wove, as spiders would their prey secure!
Then, over such, the iron rod appears,
As wielded by a Demon; where maintain’d
The galling rule is;—nothing to refresh
The weary soul that’s doom’d such things t’ endure!