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40 His bidding, bribed by short-lived joys to lend Force to the weakness of his trembling arm.

They rise, they fall; one generation comes Yielding its harvest to destruction's scythe. It fades, another blossoms, yet behold! Red glows the tyrant's stamp-mark on its bloom, Withering and cankering deep its passive prime. He has invented lying words and modes, Empty and vain as his own coreless heart; Evasive meanings, nothings of much sound, To lure the heedless victim to the toils Spread round the valley of its paradise.

Look to thyself, priest, conqueror, or prince! Whether thy trade is falsehood, and thy lusts Deep wallow in the earnings of the poor, With whom thy master was:—or thou delightst In numbering o'er the myriads of thy slain, All misery weighing nothing in the scale Against thy short-lived fame: or thou dost load With cowardice and crime the groaning land, A pomp-fed king. Look to thy wretched self! Aye, art thou not the veriest slave that e'er Crawled on the loathing earths? Are not thy days Days of unsatisfying listlessness? Dost thou not cry, ere night's long rack is o'er, When will the morning come? Is not thy youth A vain and feverish dream of sensualism? Thy manhood blighted with unripe disease? Are not thy views of unregretted death