Throw down thine iron sceptres then, O kings!
Lift up thy feet from off thy people’s necks;
No longer look on fellow-men as things,
Whose toil enriches and whose labour decks
Thy fleeting pomp, thy quickly-passing pride,
Which leaves thee but a worm when life decays;
When no proud robe thy earthly dust shall hide,
And vanished be the pomp of former days.
Like this dead king, whose ruined forts surround,
Lay not up on earth what ye deem glory,