No power has he save that which we bestow;
A poet’s fiction gave him birth,
The dream of fools, adored on earth
By none except the sons of vanity.
QUEVEDO.
No more shall custom dash my coward heart,
Nor shadowy forms nor gloomy fears o’erpower
My soul, that waits the cold, dark, final hour:
Soul! be thyself, arm, courage is thy part.