A BALLADE OF KINGS.
Where are the mighty kings of yore
Whose sword-arm cleft the world in twain?
And where are they who won and wore
The empire of the land and main?
Where's Alexander, Charlemain?
Alone the sky above them brings
Their tombs the tribute of the rain.
Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
Where now is Rome's old emperor,
Who gazed on burning Rome full fain;
And where, at one for evermore,
The Liege of France, the Lord of Spain?
What of Napoleon's lightning brain,
Grim Fritz's iron hammerings,
Forging the links of Europe's chain?
Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
Where, 'neath what ravenous curses sore,
Hath Well-Loved Louis lapsed and lain?
Where is the Lion-Heart, who bore
The spears toward Zion's gate again?
And can so little space contain,
Quiet from all his wanderings,
The world-demanding Tamburlaine?
Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
Envoy.
O Kings, bethink ye then how vain
The pride and pomp of earthly things:
A little pain, a little gain,
Then dust in dust are the bones of kings.
Arthur Symons.
BALLADE OF ACHERON.
Between the Midnight and the Morn,
The under-world my soul espied;
I saw the shades of men out-worn,
The Heroes fallen in their pride;
I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide,
And many a ghost that strayed thereon;
"Still must I roam," a maiden sighed,
"The sunless marsh of Acheron."