No. 7, Low-born clods of brute earth (Demons)

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.

Angel

It is the restless panting of their being;

Like beasts of prey, who, caged within their bars,

In a deep hideous purring have their life,

And an incessant pacing to and fro.