Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/307

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 throne ambition on its 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,
Forgetful of his God? in that sad 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 pardoning One.

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
Suit not the born of clay. Oh, rather walk