XLII.

There shall they rot--Ambition's honoured fools![bz] Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay![66] Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,[ca] The broken tools, that Tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts--to what?--a dream alone. Can Despots compass aught that hails their sway?[cb] Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?