XVIII.
Yet, even in yon sequester’d spot,
May worthier conquest be thy lot
Than yet thy life has known;
Conquest, unbought by blood or harm,
That needs nor foreign aid nor arm,
A triumph all thine own.
Such waits thee when thou shalt controul
Those passions wild, that stubborn soul,
That marr’d thy prosperous scene:—
Hear this—from no unmoved heart,
Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART
With what thou MIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN!