Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 1.djvu/32

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 When from his pomp retir'd alone He feels the duties of the throne, Feels that the multitude below Depend on him for weal or woe ; When his powerful will may bless A realm with peace and happiness, Or with desolating breath: Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death: Oh give to him the flowing bowl, Bid it humanize his soul; He shall not feel the empire's weight, He shall not feel the cares of state, The bowl shall each dark thought beguile,And Nations live and prosper from his smile.
 Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd the song,Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng;Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid,On every cheek a smile applauding play'd;The rival Bard advanced, he struck the stringsAnd pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.
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