Page:In Bohemia (1886).djvu/28



They brought them up from their huts in the fens,
 * The woful sufferers gaunt and grim;

They flocked from the city's noisome dens
 * "To the Monarch's throne to be touched by him.

"For his touch," they whisper, "is sovereign balm,
 * The anointed King has a power to heal."

Oh, the piteous prayers as the royal palm
 * Is laid on their necks while they humbly kneel!

Blind hope! But the cruel and cold deceit
 * A rich reward to the palace brings:

A snare for the untaught People's feet.
 * And a courtier's lie for the good of Kings.

But the years are sands, and they slip away
 * Till the baseless wall in the sun lies bare;

The touch of the King has no balm to-day.
 * And the Right Divine is the People's share.