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Then the straight road where sacred justice leads,
Where for its plighted compact honour bleeds,
Was left, and holy patriot zeal gave place
To lust of gold and self-devotion base;
Deceitful art the Chief's sole guide became,
And breach of faith was wisdom; slaughter, fame.
Yet though from far his hawk-eye markt its prey,
Soon through the rocks that crost his crooked way,
As a toil'd bull, fiercely he stumbled on,
Till low he lay dishonour'd and o'erthrown.
Others, without his valour or his art,
With all his interested rage of heart,
Follow'd, as blighting mists on Gama's toil,
And undermined and rent the mighty pile;
Convulsions dread its deep foundations tore:
Its bending head the scath of lightning bore:
Its fallen turrets desolation spread;
And from its faithless shade in horror fled
