there needed none. 
    But, should she cross some glittering enterprise,
    Her pleas, her awful threats, he could despise;
    Oaths, lightly sworn, and now forgotten things,
    Vanish’d, like smoke before the tempest’s wings. 
    At interest’s call, when danger’s sudden voice
    Extinguish’d hope, nor left a final choice,
    His sacred honours he renounc’d, and fled
    To hide in silent solitude his head: 
    At interest’s call, he calmly thrust aside
    Each bond of conscience that opposed his pride,
    And, deeming every scruple out of place,
    Back posted to his dignified disgrace.

      Next, with a lofty step advancing, came
    A martial chieftain—­Otho was his name: 
    In Denmark born, of an illustrious line,
    Whose glories, now effaced, had ceased to shine;
    And he was but unanxious to redeem
    Those honours, in his eyes a worthless dream. 
    Trained in licentious customs, he despised
    All virtue’s rules, and pleasure only prized;
    And, faithful as the magnet, turn’d his head
    To follow fortune wheresoe’er it led: 
    Tho’ hostile justice rear’d her loftiest mound,
    To bar his passage o’er forbidden ground. 
    Swift o’er all impediments he flew,
    And strain’d his eyes to keep the prize in view. 
    Religion, virtue, sense, to him were nought;
    He hated none, yet none employ’d his thought,
    Save when he glitter’d in their borrowed beam,
    To gain preferment, or to court esteem. 
    The minister, not tool, of Christiern’s will,
    He serv’d his measures, yet despis’d him still: 
    Scann’d with impartial view th’encircling scene,
    Glancing o’er all an eye exact and keen,
    Advantage to descry; and seldom fail’d,
    When Virtue’s cause by Fortune’s will prevail’d,
    On virtue’s side his valour to display,
    And ne’er forsake it, but for better pay. 
    And, e’en when Danger round his fenceless head
    Her threatening weight of mountain surges spread,
    He, like a whale amid the tempest’s roar,
    Smiled at the storm, nor deign’d to wish it o’er. 
    ’Twas dull instinctive boldness—­like a fire
    Pent up in earth, whose forces ne’er expire,
    By grossest fuel nourished, but immured
    In dingy night, shine heavy and obscured;
    Sustain’d by this thro’ all the scenes of strife,
    Whose dark succession form’d his chequer’d life,
    He ne’er the soul’s sublimer courage felt,
    That warms the heart, and teaches it to melt;
    That nurses liberty’s expanding seeds,
    And teems prolific with the noblest deeds. 
    To guide the storm of battle o’er the plain,
    Condense its force, expand it, or restrain;
    To turn the tide of conquest to defeat
    By stratagems too fatally complete,
    Or freeze it by delay; to aim at will