Yet, might her earthly treasures feed the fire
Of wild ambition, or base gain's desire,
He could assume, at will, her fairest dress--
Could plunge in Superstition's dark recess--
Or the red mask of Bigotry put on;
The fiercest champion, where there needed none.
But, should she cross some glittering enterprise,
Her pleas, her awful threats, he could despise;
Oaths, lightly sworn, and now forgotten things,
Vanish'd, like smoke before the tempest's wings.
At interest's call, when danger's sudden voice
Extinguish'd hope, nor left a final choice,
His sacred honours he renounc'd, and fled
To hide in silent solitude his head:
At interest's call, he calmly thrust aside
Each bond of conscience that opposed his pride,
And, deeming every scruple out of place,
Back posted to his dignified disgrace.

Next, with a lofty step advancing, came
A martial chieftain--Otho was his name:
In Denmark born, of an illustrious line,
Whose glories, now effaced, had ceased to shine;
And he was but unanxious to redeem
Those honours, in his eyes a worthless dream.
Trained in licentious customs, he despised
All virtue's rules, and pleasure only prized;
And, faithful as the magnet, turn'd his head
To follow fortune wheresoe'er it led:
Tho' hostile justice rear'd her loftiest mound,