The changing seasons, winter's leafless reign, The budding of the heaven-breathing trees, The eternal orbs that beautify the night, The sunrise, and the setting of the moon, Earthquakes and wars, and poisons and disease, And all their causes, to an abstract point, Converging, thou did'st bend, and called it God; The self-sufficing, the omnipotent, The merciful, and the avenging God! Who, prototype of human misrule, sits High in Heaven's realm, upon a golden throne, Even like an earthly king: and whose dread work, Hell gapes forever for the unhappy slaves Of fate, whom he created in his sport, To triumph in their torments when they fell! Earth heard the name; earth trembled, as the smoke Of his revenge ascended up to Heaven, Blotting the constellations: and the cries Of millions, butchered in sweet confidence, And unsuspecting peace, even when the bonds Of safety were confirmed by wordy oaths, Sworn in his dreadful name, rung through the land; Whilst innocent babes writhed on thy stubborn spear, And thou did'st laugh to hear the mother's shriek Of maniac gladness, as the sacred steel Felt cold in her torn entrails! Religion! thou wert then in manhood's prime; But age crept on: one God would not suffice For senile puerility; thou fram'dst A tale to suit thy dotage, and to glut Thy misery-thirsting soul, that the mad fiend Thy wickedness had pictured might afford A plea for sating the unnatural thirst For murder, rapine, violence, and crime, That still consumed thy being, even when Thou heard'st the step of fate:--that flames might light Thy funeral scene, and the shrill horrent shrieks Of parents dying on the pile that burned To light their children to thy paths, the roar Of the encircling flames, the exulting cries Of thine apostles, loud commingling there, Might sate thy hungry ear Even on the bed of death! But now contempt is mocking thy gray hairs; Thou art descending to the darksome grave, Unhonored and unpitied, but by those Whose pride is passing by like thine, and sheds Like thine, a glare that fades before the sun Of truth, and shines but in the dreadful night That long has lowered above the ruined world." Speaking of the Atheist's martyrdom in answer to the spirit of "Ianthe," Shelley makes his fairy say:-- "There is no God! Nature confirms the faith his death-groan sealed. Let heaven and earth, let man's revolving race, His ceaseless generations, tell their tale; Let every part depending on the chain That links it to the whole, point to the hand That grasps its term! Let every seed that falls In silent eloquence unfold its store Of argument. Infinity within, Infinity without, belie creation; The exterminate spirit it contains Is nature's only God: but human pride Is skilful to invent most serious names To hide its ignorance.