Chapter XVIII

Yet, even in yon sequestered spot,
May worthier conquest be thy lot
Than yet thy life has known;
Conquest, unbought by blood or harm,
That needs nor foreign aid nor arm,
A triumph all thine own.
Such waits thee when thou shalt control
Those passions wild, that stubborn soul,
That marred thy prosperous scene:—
Hear this—from no unmovéd heart,
Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART
With what thou MIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN!