Got up French freedom’s cruel farces,
And made worse bumps than ours in masses.
And Godwin, too, in substance said,
Our bodies politic must be bled;
Man’s only mode of melioration
Is doctoring off one generation,—[16]
And substituting in its place
A spotless super-human race,
Pure as an unborn infant’s dream,
Of moonshine made, and moved by steam.