XIV.

A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Something of which its masters are afraid--
States to be curbed, and thoughts to be confined,
Conspiracy or Congress to be made--
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind--
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
With God and Man's abhorrence for its gains.

XV.

If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Emasculated to the marrow _It_
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind,
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Eutropius of its many masters,[9]--blind
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Fearless--because _no_ feeling dwells in ice,
Its very courage stagnates to a vice.[10]

XVI.

Where shall I turn me not to _view_ its bonds,
For I will never _feel_ them?--Italy!
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee[11]--
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds,