Classic Poem

A monarch sat and wept
Upon his lofty throne,—
In death's cold chamber slept
That monarch's eldest son.

His nobles, with their train,
Stood round him, all in state;
The king would speak,—in vain!
His sorrow was too great.

The king, he strove to speak,—
The father bowed and wept;
The salt tears down his cheek,
All to his mantle, crept.

Again he strove to speak,—
His heart is broke again;
He sobbed,—and o'er his cheek
The tears gushed down like rain.

That monarch's princely son,
In all his manly bloom,
Grim Death—the envious one—
Has hurried to the tomb.

He sought the king,—but no,—
God's armor broke the dart;
He smites the son, and lo!
He hits the father's heart.

The eye is stiff that beamed
With warm love yesterday;
To-morrow's sceptre gleamed
For a hand now lifeless clay.

Pale is the brow that wore
So well the fresh green wreath;
That heart shall beat no more
With hope,—'t is hushed in death.

The wife 's a widowed one,—
The promised crown has flown,—
And soon her little son,
An orphan, mounts the throne.

O cruel Death! thy blow
Falls here with heaviness;
It fills the house with woe,
And France with sore distress.

Yet is there solace, too;
Hearts oft at war are one;
What ne'er the king could do,
The father's tear hath done.

God bless the firm, wise one,
And many a year still spare,
And long with honor crown,
And joy, his hoary hair.

And grant the kingdom rest,—
What'er Death turns to dust,—
That hearts by trouble blest
May work with manly trust.