race!

XXXV.

_SOPHISTS._

_Nessun ti verra a dire._

'Behold, I am a Sophist!' no man saith.
But the true sons of perfidy refined
Forge theologic lies the soul to blind,
Calling themselves evangels of the faith.
Aretine with his scoundrels blew his breath,
And in the cynic orgies boldly joined;
His ribald jests had flowers and thorns combined--
A frank fair list including life and death,
For fun, not fraud. It shames him to be found
Less vile than those who cannot bear to see
Their sink of filth laid open to the ground:
Wherefore they shut our mouths, our books impound,
Garble with lies each sentence that may be
Cited to prove their foul hypocrisy.

XXXVI.

_AGAINST HYPOCRITES._

_Gli affetti di Pluton._

Deep in their hearts they hide the lusts of Hell:
Christ's name is written on their brow, that those
Who only view the husk, may not suppose
What guile and malice harbour in the shell.
O God! O Wisdom! Holy Fervour! Well
Of strength invincible to strike Thy foes!
Give me the force--my spirit burns and glows--
To strip those idols and to break their spell!
The zeal I bear unto Thy name benign,
The love I feel for truth sincere and pure,
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?

XXXVIII.

_ON THE LORD'S PRAYER._

No. 2.

_Dov' e la liberta._

Where are the freedom and high feats that spring
From fatherhood so fair as Deity?
Fleas are no sons of men, although they be
Flesh-born: brave thoughts and deeds this ho