That all within it but the virtuous man
Is venal:  gold or fame will surely reach
The price prefixed by selfishness, to all 170
But him of resolute and unchanging will;
Whom, nor the plaudits of a servile crowd,
Nor the vile joys of tainting luxury,
Can bribe to yield his elevated soul
To Tyranny or Falsehood, though they wield 175
With blood-red hand the sceptre of the world.

’All things are sold:  the very light of Heaven
Is venal; earth’s unsparing gifts of love,
The smallest and most despicable things
That lurk in the abysses of the deep, 180
All objects of our life, even life itself,
And the poor pittance which the laws allow
Of liberty, the fellowship of man,
Those duties which his heart of human love
Should urge him to perform instinctively, 185
Are bought and sold as in a public mart
Of undisguising selfishness, that sets
On each its price, the stamp-mark of her reign. 
Even love is sold; the solace of all woe
Is turned to deadliest agony, old age 190
Shivers in selfish beauty’s loathing arms,
And youth’s corrupted impulses prepare
A life of horror from the blighting bane
Of commerce; whilst the pestilence that springs
From unenjoying sensualism, has filled 195
All human life with hydra-headed woes.

’Falsehood demands but gold to pay the pangs
Of outraged conscience; for the slavish priest
Sets no great value on his hireling faith: 
A little passing pomp, some servile souls, 200
Whom cowardice itself might safely chain,
Or the spare mite of avarice could bribe
To deck the triumph of their languid zeal,
Can make him minister to tyranny. 
More daring crime requires a loftier meed:  205
Without a shudder, the slave-soldier lends
His arm to murderous deeds, and steels his heart,
When the dread eloquence of dying men,
Low mingling on the lonely field of fame,
Assails that nature, whose applause he sells 210
For the gross blessings of a patriot mob,
For the vile gratitude of heartless kings,
And for a cold world’s good word,—­viler still!

’There is a nobler glory, which survives
Until our being fades, and, solacing 215
All human care, accompanies its change;
Deserts not virtue in the dungeon’s gloom,
And, in the precincts of the palace, guides
Its footsteps through that labyrinth of crime;
Imbues his lineaments with dauntlessness, 220
Even when, from Power’s avenging hand, he takes
Its sweetest, last and noblest title—­death;
—­The consciousness of good, which neither