The Roman Cæsars, and the Grecian chiefs, The boast of story? Where the hotbrain'd youth, Who the tiara at his pleasure tore From kings of all the then discover'd globe, And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hamper'd, And had not room enough to do its work?-- Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim, 130 And cramm'd into a place we blush to name! Proud Royalty! how alter'd in thy looks! How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue! Son of the morning, whither art thou gone? Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head, And the majestic menace of thine eyes, Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now, Like new-born infant wound up in his swathes, Or victim tumbled flat upon its back, That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife. 140 Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongues, And coward insults of the base-born crowd, That grudge a privilege thou never hadst, But only hoped for in the peaceful grave, Of being unmolested and alone. Arabia's gums and odoriferous drugs, And honours by the heralds duly paid In mode and form even to a very scruple: Oh, cruel irony! these come too late; And only mock whom they were meant to honour, 150 Surely there's not a dungeon slave that's buried In the highway, unshrouded and uncoffin'd, But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he. Sorry pre-eminence of high descent, Above the vulgar born, to rot in state! But see! the well plumed hearse comes nodding on, Stately and slow; and properly attended By the whole sable tribe that painful watch The sick man's door, and live upon the dead, By letting out their persons by the hour, 160 To mimic sorrow when the heart's not sad. How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl'd And glittering in the sun! Triumphant entries Of conquerors, and coronation pomps, In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people Retard the unwieldy show; whilst from the casements And houses' tops, ranks behind ranks close wedged Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste? Why this ado in earthing up a carcase That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril 170 Smells horrible?--Ye undertakers, tell us, 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the principal conceal'd, for which You make this mighty stir?--'Tis wisely done; What would offend the eye in a good picture, The painter casts discreetly into shade. Proud lineage! now how little thou appear'st! Below the envy of the private man! Honour, that meddlesome officious ill, Pursues thee even to death, nor there stops short; 180 Strange persecution! when the grave itself Is no protection from rude sufferance. Absurd to think to overreach the grave, And from the wreck of names to rescue ours! The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame Die fast away: only themselves die faster. The far-famed sculptor, and the laurell'd bard,