Classic Poem

'Tis not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purple's colouring,
Nor a brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gates on mighty hinges rolled.

The king is he, who void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be sway'd by smile or frown;
Nor for all the treasure cares,
That mine conceals, or harvest wears,
Or that golden sands deliver,
Bosom'd in a glassy river.

What shall move his placid might?
Not the headlong thunderlight,
Nor the storm that rushes out
To snatch the shivering waves about,
Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade
With forward lance or fiery blade.
Safe, with wisdom on his crown,
He looks on all things calmly down;
He welcomes fate, when fate is near,
Nor taints his dying breath with fear.