THE KING'S EVIL.
They brought them up from their huts in the fens,
The woful sufferers gaunt and grim;
They flocked from the city's noisome dens
"To the Monarch's throne to be touched by him.
"For his touch," they whisper, "is sovereign balm,
The anointed King has a power to heal."
Oh, the piteous prayers as the royal palm
Is laid on their necks while they humbly kneel!
Blind hope! But the cruel and cold deceit
A rich reward to the palace brings:
A snare for the untaught People's feet.
And a courtier's lie for the good of Kings.
But the years are sands, and they slip away
Till the baseless wall in the sun lies bare;
The touch of the King has no balm to-day.
And the Right Divine is the People's share.
(22)
