Classic Poem

The monarch's crowned forehead no wrinkle reveals;
The blood on his throne he with purple conceals;
Then calls to his vassals, a menial throng:
" Let the dancing begin, bring the maskers along!"

There's ringing of music, there's joy in each breast,
The king is uneasy — the king finds no rest.
Three white -visaged maskers before him pass by,
And dark and more dark is the cloud in his eye.

Once more in red mantles they glide through the ring,
And midnight encamps on the face of the king:
In black dress, a third time, they steal on men's sight,
And the cheeks of the monarch grow pale with affright.

At the foot of his throne, now, so scornfully grim,
Three skulls, ranged in silence, are grinning at him,
He sinks from his throne, now, he falls on the floor,
But the masks, they have vanished, men see them no more.

Each face is unmasked at the monarch's command,
No juggler is seen in the midst of the band;
He calls to his page, and he breathes in his ear:
" The soothsayer bring me, ere dawn shall appear!"

The page bears the message; the Sage makes reply:
" Too late comes the question — God answers, not I.
Whenever a mortal such vision beholds,
His conscience already the meaning unfolds.

" The first skull brings terror and threatening — he saith:
" Thy works were corruption, thy doings were death. "
" The second: " Thy throne upon corpses was reared:
Must thyself, as a corpse, by the living be feared. "

" The third: " Whosoever hath looked on these twain,
Himself must be like them ere starlight shall wane.
Oh, many and motley of masks the array —
Beware thou, oh monarch, beware the dark play! " "

The page springs at morn from his sweat-dripping steed,
And bears to the palace the message with speed.
Snow-white lies the king in his robings of red,
On the black-curtained bier, for the house of the dead.