Arrayed in robes of regal state, <br />But stiff and cold, the monarch sate; <br />In gorgeous vests, his chair beside, <br />Stood prince and peer, the nation's pride; <br />And paladin and high-born dame <br />Their place amid the circle claim: <br />And wands of office lifted high, <br />And arms and blazoned heraldry,— <br /> <br />All mute like marble statues stand, <br />Nor raise the eye, nor move the hand: <br />No voice, no sound to stir the air, <br />The silence of the grave is there. <br /> <br />The portal opens—hark, a voice! <br />“Come forth, O king! O king, rejoice! <br />The bowl is filled, the feast is spread, <br />Come forth, O king!”—The king is dead. <br />The bowl, the feast, he tastes no more, <br />The feast of life for him is o'er. <br /> <br />Again the sounding portals shake, <br />And speaks again the voice that spake: <br />—“The sun is high, the sun is warm, <br />Forth to the field the gallants swarm, <br />The foaming bit the courser champs, <br />His hoof the turf impatient stamps; <br />Light on their steeds the hunters spring: <br />The sun is high—Come forth, O king!” <br /> <br />Along these melancholy walls <br />In vain the voice of pleasure calls: <br />The horse may neigh, and bay the hound,— <br />He hears no more; his sleep is sound. <br />Retire;—once more the portals close; <br />Leave, leave him to his dread repose.<br /><br />Anna Laetitia Barbauld<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wake-of-the-king-of-spain/
