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 Then the straight road where sacred justice leads, Where for its plighted compact honour bleeds, Was left, and holy patriot zeal gave place To lust of gold and self-devotion base; Deceitful art the Chief's sole guide became, And breach of faith was wisdom; slaughter, fame. Yet though from far his hawk-eye markt its prey, Soon through the rocks that crost his crooked way, As a toil'd bull, fiercely he stumbled on, Till low he lay dishonour'd and o'erthrown.


 * Others, without his valour or his art,

With all his interested rage of heart, Follow'd, as blighting mists on Gama's toil, And undermined and rent the mighty pile; Convulsions dread its deep foundations tore: Its bending head the scath of lightning bore: Its fallen turrets desolation spread; And from its faithless shade in horror fled The