A serpent round his bosom steal,
He still shall hug the coiling curse.
Or if beneath Italian skies,
The wanderer's feet delighted glide,
Harold, in merry Juan's guise,
Shall be his tutor and his guide.
One living essence God hath poured
In every heart—the love of sway—
And though he may not wield the sword,
Each is a despot in his way.