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?