Shifting Scenes and Other Poems By J. Stanyan Bigg |
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FRIENDSHIP. |
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61
VIII. FRIENDSHIP.
Scene: A Private Room in the Palace; Sidh Raj alone.
Great acts beget great thoughts, great purposes,
And noble aims; and he whose deeds transcend
The deeds of kings, has kinglier aims than they.
Shall he, then, who has trodden down all ranks
In high endeavour, for the sake of rank,
Fall to the bottom of the lowest abyss,
And be a kingless king through treachery?—
Shall he, whose life has been a constant growth
Of all unselfish virtues, of high aims,
Suddenly shrink, until the very dwarf
Who conjures to the rustics in the woods
Might write “black traitor” on his princely brow?
I'll not believe it!
And noble aims; and he whose deeds transcend
The deeds of kings, has kinglier aims than they.
Shall he, then, who has trodden down all ranks
In high endeavour, for the sake of rank,
Fall to the bottom of the lowest abyss,
And be a kingless king through treachery?—
Shall he, whose life has been a constant growth
Of all unselfish virtues, of high aims,
Suddenly shrink, until the very dwarf
Who conjures to the rustics in the woods
Might write “black traitor” on his princely brow?
I'll not believe it!
There be those who say
The hand that grasps a sceptre need not mind
The blood that purples on the royal palm;
But is he one of these? And are the rags—
The merest emblems of regality—
So precious that a royal soul should fling
All that is kingliest eagerly away
For their sake merely? Then were he discrowned
The jewelled diadem blazing on his brow;
Then were he sceptreless although the gold
Of royalty burned hot within his hand;
And then were he, the kingliest soul alive,
Suddenly beggared, though an empire flung
Its kingdoms at his feet, and though his robes
Trailed on the marble floors of palaces.
The hand that grasps a sceptre need not mind
The blood that purples on the royal palm;
But is he one of these? And are the rags—
The merest emblems of regality—
So precious that a royal soul should fling
All that is kingliest eagerly away
For their sake merely? Then were he discrowned
62
Then were he sceptreless although the gold
Of royalty burned hot within his hand;
And then were he, the kingliest soul alive,
Suddenly beggared, though an empire flung
Its kingdoms at his feet, and though his robes
Trailed on the marble floors of palaces.
He, whom foul wrong has placed upon a throne,
Has sorry subjects! He who rules through crime
Rules none but criminals. All are not kings
Who wear the robes of royalty; a slave
May don the purple, and be still a slave.
Shall he, who is a king by right, be less,
And break his golden sceptre on his knee
For a mere beggar's bauble red with blood?
He would not bring this stain upon his soul!
My old familiar friend!—my counsellor!—
My heart, and hand, and soul—my more than brother,
Who hast in endless conflicts shed thy blood,
Hast led my armies, won my victories,
And been before me, like an uncrowned god
In every grand emprize—uncrowned because
Greater than crowns and empire,—shall I plant
My foot upon thy neck at last, and feel
Thee dwindle, till a monarch's cloak can hide
In its starred folds all thy nobility?
Shall I grow large in death, and thou grow less
Than any honest beggar in the realm,
Though sitting on a throne?
Has sorry subjects! He who rules through crime
Rules none but criminals. All are not kings
Who wear the robes of royalty; a slave
May don the purple, and be still a slave.
Shall he, who is a king by right, be less,
And break his golden sceptre on his knee
For a mere beggar's bauble red with blood?
He would not bring this stain upon his soul!
My old familiar friend!—my counsellor!—
My heart, and hand, and soul—my more than brother,
Who hast in endless conflicts shed thy blood,
Hast led my armies, won my victories,
And been before me, like an uncrowned god
In every grand emprize—uncrowned because
Greater than crowns and empire,—shall I plant
My foot upon thy neck at last, and feel
Thee dwindle, till a monarch's cloak can hide
In its starred folds all thy nobility?
Shall I grow large in death, and thou grow less
Than any honest beggar in the realm,
63
Nay! Shall I doubt
Thy pure high-mindedness, because I wear
These robes, and slaves are fawning at my feet?
Thy pure high-mindedness, because I wear
These robes, and slaves are fawning at my feet?
| Shifting Scenes and Other Poems | |