A pain the guilty never make us know,
In all the miseries they cause below;
A pain which they in every triumph feel,
A humbling sense no glory yet could heal,
The want of conscious worth, the poignant thought,
That inwardly sets all pretence at naught!
That curbs all self-applause--tears all disguise--
When the subdued, the ruin'd can _despise_;
And, in the arms of death, can yet be free,
To say, "Let me be any thing but thee!"

Ambition! while thy zeal the good inflame,
And make a noble nature sigh for fame,
We deem thee of a more than royal line,
For self-devotion tendeth to divine!
But when, like Dahab's demon, selfish, vain,
It loosens Gratitude's mysterious chain;
When broken Faith aloud, but vainly calls;
When the warm friend, the king, the brother falls;
Instead of honours, and a conqueror's fame,
Hatred shall haunt, and curses brand thy name!




XXI.


LINES.