Classic Poem

Strange are the bitter things
God wreaks on cruel Kings;
Sad is the cup drunk up
By Kings accurst.
In secret ways and strong
God doth avenge man's wrong.
The least, God saith, is Death,
And Life the worst.

Sit under the sweet skies;
Think how Kings set and rise,
Think, wouldst thou know the woe
In each proud breast?
Sit on the hearth and see
Children look up to thee—
Think, wouldst thou own a throne,
Or lowly rest?

Ah, to grow old, grow old,
Upon a throne of gold—
Ah, on a throne, so lone,
To wear a crown;
To watch the clouds, the air,
Lest storm be breeding there—
Pale, lest some blast may cast
Thy glory down.

He who with miser's ken
Hides his red gold from men,
And wakes and grieves, lest thieves
Be creeping nigh;
He who hath murder done,
And fears each rising sun,
Lest it say plain ‘O Cain,
Rise up and die!’

These, and all underlings,
Are blesseder than Kings,
For ah! by weight of fate
Kings' hearts are riven;
With blood and gold they too
Reckon their sad days thro'—
They fear the plan of man,
The wrath of heaven.

In the great lonely bed,
Hung round with gold and red,
While the dim light each night
Burns in the room,
They lie alone and see
The rustling tapestry,
Lest Murther's eyes may rise
Out of the gloom.

Dost thou trust any man?
Thou dost what no King can.
Friend hast thou near and dear?
A King hath none.
Hast thou true love to kiss?
A King hath no such bliss,
On no true breast may rest
Under the sun.

Ah, to sit cold, sit cold,
Upon a throne of gold,
Forcing the while a smile
To hide thy care;
To taste no cup, to eat
No food, however sweet,
But with a drear dumb fear,
Lest Death be there!

Ah, to rule men, and know
How many wish thee low—
That 'neath the sun, scarce one
Would keep thee high:
To watch in agony
The strife of all things free,
To dread the mirth of Earth
When thou shalt die!

Hast thou a hard straw bed?
Hast thou thy crust of bread?
And hast thou quaffed thy draught
Of water clear?
And canst thou dance and sing?—
O blesseder than a King!
O happy one whom none
Doth hate or fear!

Wherefore, though from the strong
Thou sufferest deep wrong,
Tho' Kings, with ire and fire,
Have wrought thee woe:
Pray for them! for I swear
Deeply they need thy prayer—
Most in their hour of power,
Least when cast low.

And when thou castest down
King, sceptre, throne, and crown,
Pause that same day, and pray
For the accurst;
Since in strange ways and strong,
God doth avenge man's wrong—
The least, God saith, is Death,
And Life the worst.