Ere many days had passed away, His former friend, the hermit, Came running quickly, crying---"Say, 'Tis dream-work, or as truth affirm it, That you are now beloved of kings, And deal yourself in regal things. Oh, kings mistrust; their favour goes Life snow on water; thousand woes Fall ever on the luckless wight Who basks a time in kingly might. You know not to what precipice You haste. Come back; take my advice." The other smiled; on which the man Of sacred life, continuing, said-- "Alas! already I can scan How far astray your wits have fled; Your foolish conduct calls to mind The story of the traveller blind, Who sees a snake benumbed with cold; The creature frosts so numb and nip, He lies like some old leathern whip; His own just lost, the man takes hold, And waves the reptile in his joy, When one who passes by that way Cries--'Heavens! throw that snake away, Or quickly 'twill your life destroy.' 'No snake; but a good whip,' replied the other. 'No whip; but snake,' replied the stranger; 'And, pray, should I thus make a pother Unless I saw your woful danger? And will you really keep that thing, With fangs so sharp, and deadly sting?' 'Of course, I shall; my whip was lost, And this will save another's cost. You speak from envy--sir, good-bye.' The snake, now brandished wide and high, Grew warm and warmer gradually, And, stinging, caused the fool to die. But, as for you, my satrap friend, You hasten to a bitterer end." "What! worse than death?" the satrap cried. "Ah! worse than death," the sage replied. And, in due time, the hermit's word Was proved with truth in due accord; For all the pests that haunt a Court, By hint and wink, and false report, Soon made the satrap's virtuous skill Seem to his royal master ill. Cabals arose on every side; Defeated suitors loudly cried, "With what belonged to us he built that palace wide." The Monarch fain would see this wealth, And thither stole one day by stealth, But nought within it met his eyes Save modest mediocrities, And praises of the joys that lie In loneliness and poverty. "His wealth, then," cried the pests, "consists In diamonds, pearls, and amethysts; In yonder chest with locks his hoard, The ransom of a king, is stored!" The Monarch, with his own white hands, Undoes the locks and clumsy bands, Throws back the wooden lid--and mute Each base calumnious courtier stands; For in that oaken chest is nought But cap and jacket, roughly wrought, A simple cloak, a shepherd's flute. "Ah! much-loved treasures;" then exclaims The Shepherd; "you are dear, indeed, For never did you rouse the greed Or malice of my fellow-men, And you your master now reclaims; Let's leave this palace, ne'er again