I'm like some king in whose corrupted veins Flows aged blood; who rules a land of rains; Who, young in years, is old in all distress; Who flees good counsel to find weariness Among his dogs and playthings, who is stirred Neither by hunting-hound nor hunting-bird; Whose weary face emotion moves no more E'en when his people die before his door. His favourite Jester's most fantastic wile Upon that sick, cruel face can raise no smile; The courtly dames, to whom all kings are good, Can lighten this young skeleton's dull mood No more with shameless toilets. In his gloom Even his lilied bed becomes a tomb. The sage who takes his gold essays in vain To purge away the old corrupted strain, His baths of blood, that in the days of old The Romans used when their hot blood grew cold, Will never warm this dead man's bloodless pains, For green Lethean water fills his veins. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MILITARY PROGRESS by MARIANNE MOORE LINES ON LEAVING THE BEDFORD STR. SCHOOL HOUSE by GEORGE SANTAYANA PLEASURE MIXED WITH PAIN by THOMAS WYATT PARTING AT MORNING by ROBERT BROWNING THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE PORTRAIT by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE VOLUNTEER by ELBRIDGE JEFFERSON CUTLER ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 10. TO THOMAS EDWARDS, ON ... POPE'S WORKS by MARK AKENSIDE |