Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/278

242 XLII.

But Quiet to quick bosoms is a Hell,

And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire

And motion of the Soul which will not dwell

In its own narrow being, but aspire

Beyond the fitting medium of desire;

And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,

Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire

Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,

Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.

XLIII.

This makes the madmen who have made men mad

By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings,

Founders of sects and systems, to whom add

Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things

Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs,

And are themselves the fools to those they fool;

Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings

Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school

Which would unteach Mankind the lust to shine or rule:

XLIV.

Their breath is agitation, and their life

A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,