’Man is of soul and body, formed for deeds
Of high resolve, on fancy’s boldest wing 155
To soar unwearied, fearlessly to turn
The keenest pangs to peacefulness, and taste
The joys which mingled sense and spirit yield. 
Or he is formed for abjectness and woe,
To grovel on the dunghill of his fears, 160
To shrink at every sound, to quench the flame
Of natural love in sensualism, to know
That hour as blessed when on his worthless days
The frozen hand of Death shall set its seal,
Yet fear the cure, though hating the disease. 165
The one is man that shall hereafter be;
The other, man as vice has made him now.

’War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight,
The lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade,
And, to those royal murderers, whose mean thrones 170
Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore,
The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. 
Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, surround
Their palaces, participate the crimes
That force defends, and from a nation’s rage 175
Secure the crown, which all the curses reach
That famine, frenzy, woe and penury breathe. 
These are the hired bravos who defend
The tyrant’s throne—­the bullies of his fear: 
These are the sinks and channels of worst vice, 180
The refuse of society, the dregs
Of all that is most vile:  their cold hearts blend
Deceit with sternness, ignorance with pride,
All that is mean and villanous, with rage
Which hopelessness of good, and self-contempt, 185
Alone might kindle; they are decked in wealth,
Honour and power, then are sent abroad
To do their work.  The pestilence that stalks
In gloomy triumph through some eastern land
Is less destroying.  They cajole with gold, 190
And promises of fame, the thoughtless youth
Already crushed with servitude:  he knows
His wretchedness too late, and cherishes
Repentance for his ruin, when his doom
Is sealed in gold and blood! 195
Those too the tyrant serve, who, skilled to snare
The feet of Justice in the toils of law,
Stand, ready to oppress the weaker still;
And right or wrong will vindicate for gold,
Sneering at public virtue, which beneath 200
Their pitiless tread lies torn and trampled, where
Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.