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They make obeisance, and retire in haste,

Too soon to seek again the watery waste:

Yet they repine not—so that Conrad guides,

And who dare question aught that he decides?

That man of loneliness and mystery,

Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh—

Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,

And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;

Still sways their souls with that commanding art

That dazzles—leads—yet chills the vulgar heart.

What is that spell, that thus his lawless train

Confess and envy—yet oppose in vain?

What should it be, that thus their faith can bind?

The power of Thought—the magic of the Mind!

Linked with success—assumed and kept with skill,

That moulds another's weakness to its will—

Wields with their hands—but still to these unknown,

Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own.

Such hath it been—shall be—beneath the sun

The many still must labour for the one;

'Tis Nature's doom—but let the wretch who toils,

Accuse not—hate not—him who wears the spoils.