Classic Poem

Upon a marble table lay,
Announcing silently the gala-day,
At early morn, a royal crown,
And by its side the royal nightcap. “How?”
Began the glittering trinket, looking down
On its plain neighbour with a frown
Of indignation, pride, and bitter scorn,—
“And dost thou venture here, where ne'er, till now,
The like of thee beheld the light of morn?
'T were surely quite enough, that in the night,
In the dark sleeping-chamber, hid from sight,
A monarch should such things as this allow
To wrap incognito his royal head,
While slumbering on his bed!
But thou——
Think what thou art and where thou art,—low-born!”
“I am,” stole forth the humble, firm reply,
“Not so dispensable as thou dost deem
To his, thy regent's, and thine own renown.
True, where they see thy flashing jewels gleam,
With pomp of praise and swell of laureate song,
The idle parasites and flatterers throng,
The astonished multitude bow down,
And, ah! too soon a foolish king
Forgets he, too, is but a mortal thing.
But when upon the pillow he and I
In the dumb darkness lie,
Alone, I whisper in his ear
The mighty truth, and, will his pride but hear,
Then shall a faithful people gratefully revere,
Even in the person of a prince's son,
Shining through all, and towering far above,
The person of the man their hearts can love.
Then, crown, rejoice! for thou hast holier lustre won!”