The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd
Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled

In imitation of the things they fear'd,

And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd,

At apish distance; but as yet none have,

Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd,

Save one vain man, who is not in the

grave,

She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart
The milk of conquest yet within the dome
Where, as a monument of antique art,
Thou standest :-Mother of the mighty heart,
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat,
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart,
And thy limbs black with lightning-dost thou yet

Thou dost ;-but all thy foster-babes are dead-
The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd

Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled

In imitation of the things they fear'd,

And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd,

At apish distance; but as yet none have,

Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd,
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,

XC.

The fool of false dominion-and a kind
Of bastard Cæsar, following him of old
With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould,
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold,
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd
At Cleopatra's feet,-and now himself he beam'd,

XCI.

And came and saw-and conquer'd! But the man
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee,
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van,

Which he, in sooth, long led to victory,
With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be
A listener to itself, was strangely framed;
With but one weakest weakness-vanity,
Coquettish in ambition-still he aim’d—

At what? can he avouch-or answer what he claim'd?

XCII.

And would be all or nothing-nor could wait
For the sure grave to level him; few years

Had fix'd him with the Cæsars in his fate,

On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears

The arch of triumph! and for this the tears
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd,
A universal deluge, which appears

Without an ark for wretched man's abode,

XCIII.

What from this barren being do we reap?
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,

Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep,
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale;
Opinion an omnipotence-whose veil

Mantles the earth with darkness, until right

And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale

Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too

much light.

XCIV.

And thus they plod in sluggish misery,
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,
Bequeathing their hereditary rage

To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage
War for their chains, and rather than be free,
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage

Within the same arena where they see

Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.

XCV.

I speak not of men's creeds-they rest between
Man and his Maker-but of things allow'd,
Averr'd, and known,-and daily, hourly seen-
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd,
And the intent of tyranny avow'd,

The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown
The apes of him who humbled once the proud,

And shook them from their slumbers on the throne;