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Of power, that monarchs felt his dampening shade Fall on their greatness.
Here his feasts were spread Magnificent, and here, with clerkly skill, He fostered learning, while his secret thought Was how to make his haughty honors grow, And proudly throne them on a thunder-cloud For realms to kneel to. But the daring hand, That grasped so long the crowned lion s mane, Failed, and he fell, fell low to rise no more. So, with a solemn sadness, he went down, As great minds do.
Was there no penitence In that deploring eloquence, which blamed The folly of the man that serves his king, More than his God ? in that remorseful glance, Of retrospection, which so analyzed All pomps of life, and found them vanity ? In that humility of voice, which asked At Leicester-Abbey, with his broken train, But for that little charity of earth Which the dead beggar finds ?
We trust the cloud
Fell not in vain upon him, but restored His chastened spirit to the Pardoner.
Is pride for man ? the crushed before the moth ? Is it for angels ? Answer, ye who walked Exulting on the battlements of Heaven, And fell interminably. Dizzy heights 21
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