Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor conquest dare to desolate God’s earth;
Nor drunken Victory, with a Nero’s mirth,
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people’s groans;—
But, built on love, the world’s exalted thrones
Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given—
Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven!
When will this be?—or, oh! is it, in truth,
But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth,
In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,