Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 6.djvu/38

8 That turns and turns to give the world a notion

Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

XIV.

A bungler even in its disgusting trade,

And botching, patching, leaving still behind

Something of which its masters are afraid—

States to be curbed, and thoughts to be confined,

Conspiracy or Congress to be made—

Cobbling at manacles for all mankind—

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,

With God and Man's abhorrence for its gains.

XV.

If we may judge of matter by the mind,

Emasculated to the marrow It

Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind,

Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,

Eutropius of its many masters, —blind

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,

Fearless—because no feeling dwells in ice

Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

XVI.

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,

For I will never feel them?—Italy!

Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds

Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee —