XXXVII.

   Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! 
   She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
   Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds than now
   That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,
   Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became
   The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert
   A god unto thyself; nor less the same
   To the astounded kingdoms all inert,
Who deemed thee for a time whate’er thou didst assert.

XXXVIII.

   Oh, more or less than man—­in high or low,
   Battling with nations, flying from the field;
   Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now
   More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield: 
   An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
   But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
   However deeply in men’s spirits skilled,
   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 brooked the turning tide
   With that untaught innate philosophy,
   Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
   Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
   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 spoiled and favourite child,
He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.

XL.

   Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them
   Ambition steeled thee on to far too show
   That just habitual scorn, which could contemn
   Men and their thoughts; ’twas wise to feel, not so
   To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,
   And spurn the instruments thou wert to use
   Till they were turned unto thine overthrow: 
   ’Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.

XLI.

   If, like a tower upon a headland rock,
   Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,
   Such scorn of man had helped 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.

XLII.

   But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
   And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire
   And motion of the soul, which will not dwell
   In its own narrow being, but aspire
   Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
   And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
   Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
   Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.