XVII.
In fine, he made “the world a stage,”
And all upon it act their parts—
By Nature’s prompting and by Art’s—
For Art is Nature taught by age.
XVIII.
And, singing thus, he passed his days—
Not without honour, it is true—
Yet hardly understood by few,
And these were slow in giving praise.
XIX.
And men had lived in mist so long,
Some could not bear his blaze of light,
But shut their eyes, and said ’twas night,
When it ’twas just the noon of song.
XX.
But when his soul shook off its clay,
And hied, its labour done, to God,
Throughout the land that he had trod,
’Twas felt “A King is dead to-day!”