Iii

Upon those servants of another world When madding Power her bolts had hurled, Their habitation shook;--it fell, And perished, save one narrow cell; Whither, at length, a Wretch retired Who neither grovelled nor aspired: He, struggling in the net of pride, The future scorned, the past defied; Still tempering, from the unguilty forge Of vain conceit, an iron scourge!