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And now he sits upon a throne, A monarch in a realm, his own,
And holds the universe Within his grasp, with tender clasp, A regal king with soul to sing,
But stript of scrip and purse.
Now list the music of his shell, And hear his raptured accents tell
Of pure and noble things, With minstrel's art and poet's heart, He fills the bowl that soothes the soul,
And plays upon its strings.
THE COMING MASTER.
I sit upon my vine-clad porch,
'Tis summer's ardent weather, And watch the breezes toying with
The thistle's downy feather. My once brown hair is white as snow,
My hands are thin and wrinkled, But better eyes have never yet
In such an old head twinkled.
A mile away, and up the road, I see a horseman riding;