Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 099.djvu/104



in his bath King Wenzel lies;

About his limbs the tepid water plays,

As soothing as the sound of am'rous lays,

Or sleep that follows drunken revelries.

Ring Wenzel is so wrapp'd in tranquil joy,

That with the flood he sports like any boy;

The fluid o'er his back and neck he flings,

And yields himself to thoughts of pleasant things,

As softly sweet, as though all strife were past,

And endless peace had come to reign at last,

As though the holy Empire was no more

One spacious field of battle, stain'd with gore;

As though the citizen was free from dread,

And blood of Hebrews was no longer shed;

As though the trav'ler could receive no wrong,

From force unbridled, wielded by the strong;

As though the stream of life no more was flowing

From hearts of brave Bohemians, wildly glowing;

As though wan, pale-faced hunger no more stood

In Prague's throng'd streets, and shriek'd aloud for food.

'Tis only such a King can have such dreams,

When rocking like a boat his kingdom seems;

A king, who often plung'd in inebriety,

Looks on a hangman as the best society;

A king who to the dogs his queen can fling.

And then a dulcet strain of love can sing.

Yes, Wenzel's a musician, and he oft—

Luxurious wight—can tell a tale full soft,

Which falls persuasively upon the ear,—

No holy heirs more soothing or more clear;

While thus in pleasant slumber he reposes,

Perhaps a song he fashions as he doses.

A noise arouses him—a distant cry

Now voices, wildly menacing, draw nigh;

Then comes a thump of clubs—a clash of swords,

A shout triumphant—angry muttered words,