A kingdom’s destiny should not be the sport
Of passion’s reckless winds. There is a time
When men, in very weariness of heart
And careless desolation, tamed to yield
By misery strong as death, will lay their souls
E’en at the conqueror’s feet—as nature sinks,
After long torture, into cold, and dull,
And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour
Of fierce atonement? Ay! the slumberer wakes
With gather’d strength and vengeance; and the sense