Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world;
  And which the nations, panic-stricken, served
  With blood, and hearts broken by long hope, and love
  Dragged to his altars soiled and garlandless,
  And slain among men's unreclaiming tears,
  Flattering the thing they feared, which fear was hate,
  Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their abandoned shrines:
  The painted veil, by those who were, called life,
  Which mimicked, as with colors idly spread,
  All men believed and hoped, is torn aside;
  The loathsome mask has fallen, the man remains
  Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but man
  Equal, unclassed, tribeless, and nationless,
  Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the king
  Over himself; just, gentle, wise; but man
  Passionless--no, yet free from guilt or pain,
  Which were, for his will made or suffered them,
  Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like slaves,
  From chance, and death, and mutability,
  The clogs of that which else might oversoar
  The loftiest star of unascended heaven,
  Pinnacled dim in the intense inane.