The King and the Peasant

World-wide possessions, populous lands
The monarch doth inherit,
And lordlier kingdoms he commands,
Fair realms within the spirit.
The monarch had a little son,
A child of five years old,
The loveliest earth ere looked upon ;
And he is lying cold.
The king is in the olive grove,
A hind sings in the tree ;
Below, the infant of his love
Is babbling merrily.
The father beats the boughs, and while
Dark oval olives fly,
The boy, with many a laugh and smile,
Pursues them far and nigh.
Blue sea between the grey-green leaves
Twinkles, and the sun
Through them a playful chequer weaves
Over the little one.
The monarch gazes all unseen,
Tears burning his wan eyes ;
Tenderly his love doth lean
To bless their Paradise,
As through black bars that foul the day.
And shut him out from joy :
Hear the world-envied monarch say,
" Perish, my bauble crown, my toy.
All the science, all the sway,
Power to mould the world my way.
Persuade to beauty the dull clay !
Take all ; but leave, ah ! leave my boy,
Give me back my life, my joy !
This poor rude peasant I would be.
Yet dare not breathe the wish that he
Were as I am, a king, of misery ! "