Oh hadst thou in prophetic trance foreseen
The times to come, been privileged to behold
Thine own "hired lodging," tawdry and unclean
As it now stands with Easter-dusted gold;
False miracles, (thick-scummed with real mould)
Supplanting thy pure Voice,—sad hadst thou been,
O Holy Paul, and tempted to withhold
Thy teaching from intelligence so mean.
But thank the darkness of thy moral cloud,
O Rome, thy lies, thy treachery, thy fear,
Light seems a sin of taste, scarce disallowed
By us conforming to the atmosphere;
Light even a superstition, whose control
Though poison to the mind, may spare the soul.