Serenely squatting on his throne,
Fogged with conundrums of his own,
And probing with his two-foot rod
His muddy substitutes for God,—
While tambourines and banjos raise
The Hymn of Noise for that of Praise;
Our very island's sea-girt rock
Risked to be land-bound into "stock";
Ay, even Woman's tarnished crown
Hawked through the windows of the town,