XXXVIII. Oh, more or less than man-in high or low, However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. XXXIX. Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eye; When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. XL. Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show That just habitual scorn which could contemn And spurn the instruments thou wert to use XLI. If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock; But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, Their admiration thy best weapon shone; The part of Philip's son was thine, not then (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. (9) XLII. But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire XLIII. This makes the madmen who have made men mad By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, And are themselves the fools to those they fool; Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule: XLIV. Their breath is agitation, and their life XLV. He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; Must look down on the hate of those below. And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. XLVI. Away with these! true Wisdom's world will be Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, XLVII. And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, |