Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/311

CANTO IV.] Wafting its native incense through the skies.

Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war,

Weaned for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze

On canvass or on stone; and they who mar

All beauty upon earth, compelled to praise,

Shall feel the power of that which they destroy;

And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise

To tyrants, who but take her for a toy,

Emblems and monuments, and prostitute

Her charms to Pontiffs proud, who but employ

The man of Genius as the meanest brute

To bear a burthen, and to serve a need,

To sell his labours, and his soul to boot.

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed,

But free; who sweats for Monarchs is no more

Than the gilt Chamberlain, who, clothed and feed,

Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door.

Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how

Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show,

Least like to thee in attributes divine,

Tread on the universal necks that bow,

And then assure us that their rights are thine?

And how is it that they, the Sons of Fame,

Whose inspiration seems to them to shine

From high, they whom the nations oftest name,

Must pass their days in penury or pain,