THE WITHERED KING.

TYRANTS dread all whom they raise high in place;
From the good, danger,-from the bad, disgrace.
They doubt the lords, mistrust the people's hate,
Till blood becomes a principle of state:
Secured nor by their guards, nor by their right;
But still they fear even more than they affright.

So have I read a story of a king

COWLEY.

Whose hand was heavy on the hearts men, Whose tongue spoke lies, and every lie a sting, Who trampled onward through a gory fen, And laugh'd to see its teeming haze arise, Spreading a crimson mist before the skies.

But age fell on him, and with age a dread

Of life and death-a leaden gloom of fear That sat down at his board, and filled his bed, And stirred his flesh, and crept within his hair.

In crowds he fear'd each man; and, when alone,

He fear'd himself, and wasted to the bone.

And to them constantly the king would cry To shoot at whomsoever wandered by.

From forth this prison durst he never pass, But roam'd about the chambers up and down;

And twenty times a day he cried, "Alas!

I wither in my own perpetual frown."
And every day he wish'd that he were dead;
Yet death he fear'd with an exceeding dread.

Along the court-yard, sadden'd with the shade
Of circling battlements-a stony nook-
For natural exercise at times he stray'd,

With eyes upon the ground as on a book:
His own sad captive, fearfully confined
In this his dungeon-castle hard and blind.

In bed, when massive darkness fill'd his eyes,
He would lie staring till his sight made

gleams

Upon the blackness, and black sleep would rise

As from a cavern, follow'd by fierce dreams That, bloodhound like, pursued and hunted him Incessantly through aspects foul and grim.

Sometimes he dreamt the foe had scaled the wall;

And he would wake, and to the ramparts haste,

And see the staring moon sicken and fall

Down the horizon, and the small stars waste In scarlet day dawn, while the warder nigh Gazed outward with a still and steady eye.

And he would bid the captain of the guard

Appoint a double watch at every post,
And let the entries be more strongly barr'd ;

Then, cold and pale and drooping as a ghost, He would return to sleep, and with a start Would wake and find the terror at his heart.

And so, unwept, he died; and soon his foe Possess'd the land, and sway'd it with great might.

It is a simple tale of long ago,

Which the swift ages bear up in their flight; But one large fact a thousand times appears In the revolving of returning years.