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 20 SHIRLEY

��THE KING OF KINGS

THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things : There is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels when they kill, But their strong nerves at last must yield : They tame but one another still. Early or late They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on their brow

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ! Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds ! All heads must come To the cold tomb : Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

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