To The Duke Of Wellington

Because thou hast believ’d, the wheels of life Stand never idle, but go always round: Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground, Mov’d only; but by genius, in the strife Of all its chafing torrents after thaw, Urg’d; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand, The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand: And, in this vision of the general law, Hast labour’d with the foremost, hast become Laborious, persevering, serious, firm; For this, thy track, across the fretful foam Of vehement actions without scope or term, Call’d History, keeps a splendour: due to wit, Which saw one clue to life, and follow’d it.