Classic Poem

'T IS not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purple's colouring,
Nor a brow that 's bound with gold,
Nor gates on mighty hinges rolled
The king is he, who void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be swayed by smile or frown;
Nor for all the treasure cares,
That mine conceals, or harvest wears,
Or that golden sands deliver,
Bosomed in a glassy river

What shall move his placid might?
Not the headlong thunderlight,
Nor the storm that rushes out
To snatch the shivering waves about,
Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade
With forward lance or fiery blade.
Safe, with wisdom for his crown,
He looks on all things calmly down;
He welcomes fate, when fate is near,
Nor taints his dying breath with fear.

Grant that all the kings assemble,
At whose tread the Scythians tremble, —
Grant that in the train be they,
Whom the Red-Sea shores obey,
Where the gems and chrystal caves
Sparkle up through purple waves;
Bring with these the Caspian stout,
Who scorns to shut th' invader out,
And the daring race that tread
The rocking of the Danube's bed,
With those again, where'er they be,
Who, lapped in silken luxury,
Feed, to the full, their lordly will; —
The noble mind is monarch still.

No need has he of vulgar force,
Armour, or arms, or chested horse,
Nor all the idle darts that light
From Parthian in his feigned flight,
Nor whirling rocks from engines thrown,
That come to shake old cities down.
No: — to fear not earthly thing,
This it is that makes the king;
And all of us, whoe'er we be,
May carve us out this royalty.