Classic Poem

Pity the king! The state must see him born,
And at the end the state must see him die;
And scarce an hour is free of prying eyes,
From royal birth to royal agony.
Yet at such life the king must make no moan:
He is his people's, he is not his own.

Pity the poet: if he hath a woe
Or joy, 't is only sent him that he may
Reveal its depth to all men in a song;
Nor hide it like all other men, and,
In pain or bliss, his is the second place:
The first belongs to all his waiting race.