_Herbert._
X
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.
_Shirley._
XI
LYCIDAS
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme.
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