'Twas strength and subtlety balanced; the wisdom not from above. For he leant o'er his own deep soul, oracular; over the pit As the Pythia throned her of old, where the rock in Delphi was split; And the vapour and echo within he mis-held for divine; and the land Heard and obey'd, unwillingly willing, the voice of command. --Soaring enormous soul, that to height o'er the highest aspires; All that the man can seize being nought to what he desires! And as, in a palace nurtured, the child to courtesy grows, Becoming at last what it acts; so man on himself can impose, Drill and accustom himself to humility, till, like an art, The lesson the fingers have learn'd appears the command of the heart; Whilst pride, as the snake at the charmer's command, coils low in its place, And he wears to himself and his fellows the mask that is almost a face. Truest of hypocrites, he!--in himself entangled, he thinks Earth uprising to Heaven, while earth-ward the heavenly sinks: Conscience, we grant it, his guide; but conscience drugg'd and deceived; Conscience which all that his self-belief whisper'd as duty believed. And though he sought earnest for God, in life-long wrestle and prayer, Yet the sky by a veil was darken'd, a phantom flitting in air; For a cloud from that seething cavernous heart fumed out in his youth, And whatever he will'd in the strength of the soul was imaged as truth:-- Grew with his growth: And now 'tis Ambition, disguised in success; And he walks with the step assured, that cares not its issue to guess, Clear in immediate purpose: and moulding his party at will, He thrones it o'er obstinate sects, his ideal constrain'd to fulfil. Cool in his very heat, self-master, he masters the realm: God and His glory the flag; but King Oliver lord of the helm! As he needs, steers crooked or straight: with his eye controlling the proud, While blandness runs from his tongue, as the candidate fawns on the crowd; Sagest of Titans, he stands; dark, ponderous, muddy-profound, Greatness untemper'd, untuned; no song, but a chaos of sound:-- Yet the key-note is ever beneath: 'Mere humble instruments! See! Poor weak saints, at the best: but who has triumph'd as we?' Thanks the Lord for each massacre-mercy, His glory, for His is the Cause: Catlike he bridles, and purrs about God: but within are the claws, The lion-strength is within!--Vane, Ludlow, Hutchinson, knew, When the bauble of Law disappear'd, and the sulky senate withdrew: When the tyrannous Ten sword-silenced the land, and the necks of the strong By the heel of their great Dictator were bruised, wrong trampling on wrong. Least willing of despots! and fain the fair temple of Law to restore, Sheathing the sword in the sceptre: But lo! as in legends of yore, Once drawn, once redden'd, it may not return to the scabbard!--and straight On that iron-track'd path he had framed to the end he is goaded by Fate. And yet, as a temperate man, to flavour some exquisite dish,