That gold, and gold alone, should be his god, As who alone rewards its worshippers. “Therefore,” he said, “dear Idol, I to thee From henceforth pay my vows; thou who dost raise The Beggar, till the Princes of the Earth Bow low to kiss his stirrup; who dost give Power and distinction, virtue and renown. My name shall be among the fortunate, For I am of those whose will is Destiny. And then, perhaps, when Victory shall be mine, My Margaret will not turn away from me, As now, methinks, even she must wish to do.” The thought was inspiration: all on fire, He wrote to one, their noble house’s chief, Whose voice was heard at Eastern council boards; And with the ardour of a youthful heart, He urged his claim: “His Lordship knew him well, The soldier’s spirit He felt; for He was strong;— The influence of wind, or sun, or rain, Could never sap His sinews: were it his To draw a sword in yonder golden land, He promised them no niggard of himself, No slothful wearer of a scarlet coat, Most terrible to women.” Marvel not That Michael took the final step alone; His Mother never knew a wish but his; His Father, ah, the sorrows of decay, And sorrow-taught indulgence, made him cold, Cold as the inmate of an idiot’s cell. II. Michael had gained his end, and India’s Sun Now ruled his eager blood; some of his hopes Were crowned with triumph; he got store of gold, But lost his sense of honour. In days like those, Deceit and violence gave the rule of life To men once wise and generous; they were poor, And they had power: Opinion, far away Raved, like the idle murmurs of the Sea, Heard, in still summer evenings, from a hill. Blame them not over harshly; skill and valour Give power, which, even when marred and mixed with wrong, May bless those who abide its visitings. When Autumn nights are moonless, and thick clouds Have hid the friendly faces of the stars, The storm may bring keen lightnings: here and there Some wretch, whose hour was come, may gain by them Immunity from other lingering deaths, And that may seem an Evil; yet the air, Purged by those very bolts, grows sweet and clear, And feeds the corn, the oil, the parched vine, And gives to men, for many and many a day, Prosperity and pleasure: so with these, God’s chosen messengers to work his will; They purify the poisoned moral gale, Cause peace and plenty wheresoe’er they go, And lead in happiness on a path of thorns. Among the foes of the English settlers, one Was ever foremost; he—by what arts won