Demons

Low-born clods Of brute earth, They aspire To become gods, By a new birth, And an extra grace, And a score of merits. As if aught Could stand in place Of the high thought, And the glance of fire Of the great spirits, The powers blest, The lords by right, The primal owners, Of the proud dwelling And realm of light,-- Dispossessed, Aside thrust, Chucked down, By the sheer might Of a despot's will, Of a tyrant's frown. Who after expelling Their hosts, gave, Triumphant still, And still unjust, Each forfeit crown To psalm-droners, And canting groaners, To every slave, And pious cheat, And crawling knave, Who licked the dust Under his feet.