The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some
new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now,
and make for us a prayer!"
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood
the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the
painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the
monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: "0 Lord,
Be merciful
to me, a fool!
" 'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth
and right, 0 Lord, we stay;
'Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the
earth from heaven away.
"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing
blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the
heart-strings of a friend.
"The ill-timed truth we might have kept
Who knows
how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say
Who knows
how grandly it had rung?
"Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The
chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders--oh, in shame
Before the
eyes of heaven we fall.
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown
the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, 0 Lord,
Be merciful
to me, a fool!"
The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King,
and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
"Be
merciful to me, a fool!"
No comments:
Post a Comment