XLV.

Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror’s dream, To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined In depths of blue infinitude, and deem They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind O’er fields of blood! But with the restless mind It hath been ever thus! and they that weep For worlds to conquer, o’er the bounds assign’d To human search, in daring pride would sweep, As o’er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep.