 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
34
SOLOMON.
Who hath not heard the trumpet of thy fame?Or is there that sequester'd dismal spot
Where thy far-echoing glory soundeth not?—
The tented Arab still among his mates
In wondrous story chaunts thy mighty name;
Thy marvels yet the fakir celebrates;
Yea, and for Solomon's unearthly power
The sorcerer yells amid his deeds of shame,
Rifling the dead at midnight's fearful hour:
Not such thy praise; these savour of a fall
Which penitence should banish from the mind;
We gladlier on thy sainted wisdom call,
And greet thee with the homage of mankind,
Wisest, and mightiest, and first of all.
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