2.

But ill for him who, bettering not with time,

Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will,

And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime,

Or seeming-genial venial fault,

Recurring and suggesting still!

He seems as one whose footsteps halt,

Toiling in immeasurable sand,

And o'er a weary sultry land,

Far beneath a blazing vault,

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill,

The city sparkles like a grain of salt.