The Poet At Court

He stands alone in the lordly hall He, with the high, pale brow; But never a one at the festival Was half so great, I trow. They kiss the hand, and they bend the knee, Slaves to an earthly king! But the heir of a loftier dynasty May scorn that courtly ring. They press, with false and flattering words, Around the blood‐bought throne; But the homage never yet won by swords Is his—the Anointed One! His sway over every nation Extendeth from zone to zone; He reigns as a god o'er creation The universe is his own. No star on his breast is beaming, But the light of his flashing eye Reveals, in its haughtier gleaming, The conscious majesty. For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow Away with that golden thing! Your fealty was never yet due till now Kneel to the God‐made King!