Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/144

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They bore the monarch on to his tomb, Black marble suiting such dwelling of gloom: But on it was graven a lesson sublime, A voice from the grave appealing to time; Were not voice from the living or dead alike On the heart in its foolish pride to strike.

"Millions bow'd down at the foot of my throne; The strength of the north and the south were my own; I had treasures pour'd forth like the waves of the sea; Success seem'd the slave of my sceptre to be. And pleasures in crowds at my least bidding came, Every wish that the will in its wildness could frame: And yet amid all that fell to my share, How much was weariness, how much was care!