They back again to the poor mortal brain,
And scoff at thy presumption.
“O, God! why should I, a mere speck on earth,
“Tear thousands from their wives, children, and homes!
“O! wherefore, from this transitory sleep,
“That now doth steal from them their inward cares,
“Should I send thousands to cold, dreary death?
“’Tis true, I am a king, and what of that?
“Is not life dear to them, as ’tis to me?
“O! peasant, envy not the prince’s lot;