of Titans comes forth, and above him the sky Is deepest:  and lo!—­’tis the White One, the Monarch!—­He mounts, as we fly!  Or as over the sea the gay ships and the dolphins glisten and flit, And then that Leviathan comes, and takes his pastime in it; And wherever he ploughs his dark road, they must sink or follow him still, For his is the bulkiest strength, the proud and paramount will!  —­Thou wast great, O King! (for we grudge not the style thou didst yearn-for in vain, But a river of blood was between and an ineffaceable stain), Great with an earth-born greatness; a Titan of awe, not of love; ’Twas strength and subtlety balanced; the wisdom not from above.  For he leant o’er his own deep soul, oracular; over the pit As the Pythia throned her of old, where the rock in Delphi was split; And the vapour and echo within he mis-held for divine; and the land Heard and obey’d, unwillingly willing, the voice of command.  —­Soaring enormous soul, that to height o’er the highest aspires; All that the man can seize being nought to what he desires!  And as, in a palace nurtured, the child to courtesy grows, Becoming at last what it acts; so man on himself can impose, Drill and accustom himself to humility, till, like an art, The lesson the fingers have learn’d appears the command of the heart; Whilst pride, as the snake at the charmer’s command, coils low in its place, And he wears to himself and his fellows the mask that is almost a face.  Truest of hypocrites, he!—­in himself entangled, he thinks Earth uprising to Heaven, while earth-ward the heavenly sinks:  Conscience, we grant it, his guide; but conscience drugg’d and deceived; Conscience which all that his self-belief whisper’d as duty believed.  And though he sought earnest for God, in life-long wrestle and prayer, Yet the sky by a veil was darken’d, a phantom flitting in air; For a cloud from that seething cavernous heart fumed out in his youth, And whatever he will’d in the strength of the soul was imaged as truth:—­ Grew with his growth:  And now ’tis Ambition, disguised in success; And he walks with the step assured, that cares not its issue to guess, Clear in immediate purpose:  and moulding his party at will, He thrones it o’er obstinate sects, his ideal constrain’d to fulfil.  Cool in his very heat, self-master, he masters the realm:  God and His glory the flag; but King Oliver lord of the helm!  As he needs, steers crooked or straight:  with his eye controlling the proud, While blandness runs from his tongue, as the candidate fawns on the crowd; Sagest of Titans, he stands; dark, ponderous, muddy-profound, Greatness untemper’d, untuned; no song, but a chaos of sound:—­ Yet the key-note is ever beneath:  ’Mere humble instruments!  See!  Poor weak saints, at the best:  but who has triumph’d as we?’ Thanks the Lord for each massacre-mercy, His glory, for His is the Cause:  Catlike he bridles, and purrs about God:  but within are the claws, The lion-strength is within!—­Vane, Ludlow, Hutchinson, knew, When the bauble of Law disappear’d,