and nestlings in the dust of the
unnumbered nations that are gone.
One after one, in stately march of time,
Kings pass, like common people, to the dust;
Unless by over-reaching, and the crime
Of too much selfhood, they are rudely thrust
A little sooner to their Maker's hands,
And their succession made accelerate
By that potention, which each scepter mans,
To fix each calendar, with human date.
No mortal is a law unto himself,
And much less, he who holds the reins of power;
For wisdom seldom is concentrated so,
That one weak soul is master of the hour,
Unquestioned arbiter of human fate,
Free to subdue, to persecute, to kill
The soul that reaches this enlarged estate,
Meets with a giant in the human will,
That soon or late, will crush him with its skill.
Dread Guard! whose portal is another world,
Thy mandate never can be circumscribed;
Only that Hand thy car to being whirled,