That tyrant o’er the tyrants of the soul, 1448
She bids Ambition quit its taken prize,
Spurn the luxuriant branch on which it sits,
Though bearing crowns, to spring at distant game;
And plunge in toils and dangers—for repose.
If hope precarious, and of things, when gain’d,
Of little moment, and as little stay,
Can sweeten toils and dangers into joys;
What then, that hope, which nothing can defeat,
Our leave unask’d? rich hope of boundless bliss!