Fragments supposed to be parts of Otho

Those whom nor power, nor lying faith, nor toil,

Nor custom, queen of many slaves, makes blind,

Have ever grieved that man should be the spoil

Of his own weakness, and with earnest mind

Fed hopes of its redemption; these recur

Chastened by deathful victory now, and find

Foundations in this foulest age, and stir

Me whom they cheer to be their minister.

Dark is the realm of grief: but human things

Those may not know who cannot weep for them.

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Once more descend

The shadows of my soul upon mankind,

For to those hearts with which they never blend,

Thoughts are but shadows which the flashing mind

From the swift clouds which track its flight of fire,

Casts on the gloomy world it leaves behind.

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