VIII.

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, Too soon to seek again the watery waste: 170 Yet they repine not--so that Conrad guides; And who dare question aught that he decides? That man of loneliness and mystery, Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh; Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue; Still sways their souls with that commanding art That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. What is that spell, that thus his lawless train Confess and envy--yet oppose in vain? 180 What should it be, that thus their faith can bind? The power of Thought--the magic of the Mind! Linked with success, assumed and kept with skill, That moulds another's weakness to its will; Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown, Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the Sun The many still must labour for the one! 'Tis Nature's doom--but let the wretch who toils, Accuse not--hate not--_him_ who wears the spoils. 190 Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, How light the balance of his humbler pains!