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Show THE KING IS DYING. Fool, stand back! the king is dying: Give him what little air remains, See you not how he gasps and strains Hear ye not how he gasps and strains To catch one other stentorions breath? God! how he labors! yes, this is death! Blow np the fire his feet are cold; - Ay, though a king, he cannot buy One briefest moment with all his gold; ! His hour has come and he must die. "Withered and wrinkled, and old and gray, The king fares out on the common way. Light the tapers: he's almost gone; Stir, you fool! 'tis past the hour To cower and cringe, and natter and fawn The thing lying there is shorn of power. Henceforth the hps of the king are dumb; , Bring up your ghastly viaticum. Absolve his soul; need enough, God wot! Mumble and sprinkle, and do your shriving; , Yet, methinks, here and there shall be left a blot, Hideously foul, despite your striving. Nor purple quilts, nor pillows of lace. Can relieve the guilt in that grim old face. Soft! stand back it is his last; Get hence! your priestly craft is o'er; For him the pomp of the world is past The king that was is king no more. Let the bells be rung, let the mass be said, And the king's heir know that the king is dead. J. B. Kenyon. |