WILLIAM HABINGTON

It tells the conqueror

That far-stretch'd power, Which his proud dangers traffic for, Is but the triumph of an hour :

That from the farthest North,

Some nation may, Yet undiscovered, issue forth,

And o'er his new-got conquest sway

Some nation yet shut in With hills of ice

May be let out to scourge his sin, Till they shall equal him in vice.

And then they likewise shall

Their ruin have ;

For as yourselves your empires fall, And every kingdom hath a grave.

Thus those celestial fires,

Though seeming mute, The fallacy of our desires

And all the pride of life confute:

For they have watch'd since first

The World had birth: And found sin in itself accurst, And nothing permanent on Earth.

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