WOE to thee, wild ambition! I employ
Despair's low notes thy dread effects to tell;
Born in high Heaven, her peace thou couldst destroy;
And, but for thee, there had not been a Hell.

Through the celestial domes thy clarion peal'd;
Angels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged,
And straight were fiends; hurl'd from the shrinking field,
They waked in agony to wail the change.

Darting through all her veins the subtle fire,
The world's fair mistress first inhaled thy breath;
To lot of higher beings learnt to aspire;
Dared to attempt, and doom'd the world to death.

The thousand wild desires, that still torment
The fiercely struggling soul, where peace once dwelt,
But perish'd; feverish hope; drear discontent,
Impoisoning all possest, — Oh! I have felt

As spirits feel —yet not for man we mourn,
Scarce o'er the silly bird in state were he,
That builds his nest, loves, sings the morn's return,
And sleeps at evening; save by aid of thee.

Fame ne'er had roused, nor song her records kept;
The gem, the ore, the marble breathing life,
The pencil's colours: all in earth had slept,
Now see them mark with death his victim's strife.

Man found thee: but Death and dull decay,
Baffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves;
By mighty works he swells his narrow day,
And reigns, for ages, on the world he loves.

Yet what the price? With stings that never cease
Thou goad'st him on; and when too keen the smart,
His highest dole he'd barter but for peace,
Food thou wilt have, or feast upon his heart.