II.
The time-spared oak, that lifts its head
In loneliness, where those are dead,
Which once stood by it on the plain,
Soon sees their places fill’d again—
So stood the monarch, full of years,
Amid an undergrowth of men;
For since the sceptre first he sway’d,
Full two score years ago and ten,
Two generations had gone by,
And twice he’d seen his people die.
Yet from his eye there beam’d a fire,
Resistless as the warrior’s lance;
And when ’twas lit with vengeful ire,
The boldest wither’d at its glance.
And still his step was quick and light,
And still his arm was nerved with might,
And still ’twas death to all, who dare
Awake the vengeance slumbering there.
But now with joy the monarch view’d
His realm in peace, his foes subdued,
And calmly turn’d abroad his eyes
O’er the wide work of warfare done,
And hoped no coming cloud would rise
To shroud in gloom his setting sun.