 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE KING'S VISIT.
“A Pordenone si fa festa; a Napoli si muorte; Vado Napoli.”—
Reply of the King.
Reply of the King.
King Humbert in his palace sat secure,
When came two messages: the first one said
The cholera at Naples slew the poor,
For rich and noble from the place had fled.
When came two messages: the first one said
The cholera at Naples slew the poor,
For rich and noble from the place had fled.
The second came from Pordenone, where
They had the races and festivity—
Something to drive away a sovereign's care—
And so they begged the King their guest might be.
They had the races and festivity—
Something to drive away a sovereign's care—
And so they begged the King their guest might be.
Quick through the electric wire the monarch spake—
Moved in his spirit by the city's woe:
“At Pordenone merriment they make;
They die at Naples; I to Naples go.”
Moved in his spirit by the city's woe:
“At Pordenone merriment they make;
They die at Naples; I to Naples go.”
Through stricken Naples soon a whisper spread
That, shaped to language, leapt from tongue to ear—
“Not left alone with misery and our dead;
One heart has sympathy—the King is here!”
That, shaped to language, leapt from tongue to ear—
“Not left alone with misery and our dead;
One heart has sympathy—the King is here!”
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The helpless widow with her babe at breast,
Mourning her husband lost, took heart again,
And said—“God in the end will stay the pest;
The King has come who loves his fellowmen.”
Mourning her husband lost, took heart again,
And said—“God in the end will stay the pest;
The King has come who loves his fellowmen.”
The loathsome beggar in his rags arrayed,
Waiting his hour to feel disease and die,
Plucked heart of grace, and thankful utterance made—
“Afar our nobles; but the King is nigh.”
Waiting his hour to feel disease and die,
Plucked heart of grace, and thankful utterance made—
“Afar our nobles; but the King is nigh.”
In hut and hovel, in the noisome lanes
Where pestilence its shafts malignant sped,
The sick a moment terrors lost and pains—
“The King will come!” each to the other said.
Where pestilence its shafts malignant sped,
The sick a moment terrors lost and pains—
“The King will come!” each to the other said.
And turning on their pallets when they heard
The King was there, within each sore-racked frame
A thrill of gratitude the spirit stirred,
And prayers ascended coupled with his name.
The King was there, within each sore-racked frame
A thrill of gratitude the spirit stirred,
And prayers ascended coupled with his name.
He came, with gracious mien and kindly tread,
Made all alike the object of his care;
He cheered the living, and he mourned the dead,
And hope inspired where all had been despair.
Made all alike the object of his care;
He cheered the living, and he mourned the dead,
And hope inspired where all had been despair.
And when his voice's sympathetic tone
Fell musical upon the people's ears,
In joy to some his face transfigured shone,
In some a deeper feeling loosened tears.
Fell musical upon the people's ears,
In joy to some his face transfigured shone,
In some a deeper feeling loosened tears.
On rich men who had left the poor to die,
On nobles who their order had disgraced,
Fell sudden shame; taught by example high,
Their new-born kindness cold neglect replaced.
On nobles who their order had disgraced,
Fell sudden shame; taught by example high,
Their new-born kindness cold neglect replaced.
It was not much, perhaps; a little thing,
With more of courage than a battle needs;
But it conferred upon the kindly King
More fame than could a thousand martial deeds.
With more of courage than a battle needs;
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More fame than could a thousand martial deeds.
And when in future ages men shall write
Of those few monarchs whom “Beloved” they call,
If more or less be there in letters bright,
Be sure King Humbert's name shall lead them all.
Of those few monarchs whom “Beloved” they call,
If more or less be there in letters bright,
Be sure King Humbert's name shall lead them all.
What man makes is but ill made at the best;
What God makes lacks no jot of perfect plan;
Man's will, a claim of birth-right, and the rest,
Here made a sovereign; God had made the man.
What God makes lacks no jot of perfect plan;
Man's will, a claim of birth-right, and the rest,
Here made a sovereign; God had made the man.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |