Tho' gloomy Bigots paint a partial God,
Bare his red arm, and lift his scorpion rod;
Tho' on a text perverting Zealots dwell,
Till Scripture suits the purposes of hell;
Think for thyself; — suppose life's voyage o'er;
Think for thyself, and envy Kings no more:
Resign'd and calm await that awful hour,
That crisis of all sublunary power,
When wreaths of glory shall adorn the Just,
And Empire's proud Colossus sink to dust.