Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   There shall they rot—­Ambition’s honoured fools! 
   Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! 
   Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
   The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
   By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
   With human hearts—­to what?—­a dream alone. 
   Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? 
   Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?