Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/141

Rh Yet, not the Senate's thunder thou shalt wield,

Nor seek for glory, in the tented field:

To minds of ruder texture, these be given—

Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.

Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat,

But, that thy tongue could never forge deceit:

The courtier's supple bow, and sneering smile,

The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,

Would make that breast, with indignation, burn

And, all the glittering snares, to tempt thee, spurn.

Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;

Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;

The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;—

Ambition's slave, alone, would toil for more.

Now last, but nearest, of the social band,

See honest, open, generous stand;