THE EASTERN KING.
135
They bore the monarch on to his tomb,
Black marble suiting such dwelling of gloom:
But on it was graven a lesson sublime,
A voice from the grave appealing to time;
Were not voice from the living or dead alike
On the heart in its foolish pride to strike.
"Millions bow'd down at the foot of my throne;
The strength of the north and the south were my own;
I had treasures pour'd forth like the waves of the sea;
Success seem'd the slave of my sceptre to be.
And pleasures in crowds at my least bidding came,
Every wish that the will in its wildness could frame:
And yet amid all that fell to my share,
How much was weariness, how much was care!
