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When Israel's race from bondage fled, Signs from on high the wanderers led; But here Heaven hung no symbol here, Their steps to guide, their souls to cheer; They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night, Naught but the fagot's guilty light; The cloud they gazed at was the smoke.
Shelley, whose soul, like his own skylark, was a winged joy he has been damned for many, many years; and Shakespeare, the greatest of the human race, who has done more to elevate mankind than all the priests who ever lived and died he is there; and all the founders of Inquisitions, the builders of dungeons, the makers of chains, the inventors of instruments of torture, tearers, and burners, and branders of human flesh, stealers of babes and sellers of husbands, and wives, and children, the drawers of the swords, of persecution, and they who kept the horizon lurid with the fagot's flame for a thousand years they are in heaven tonight.
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