220
With wit disgusting and despised without;
Saints in design, in execution men,
Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen.
Methinks, I see, and sicken at the sight,
Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight:
Spirits who prompted every damning page,
With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage.
Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around,
And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground!