None would dream that yon old beggar,
Tottering, bending toward the ground,
Once was clothed in royal purple,
And his silver locks gold-crowned!
Foul conspirators discrowned him,
Tore the radiant purple off,
Placing in his hands, for sceptre,
Yonder wormy pilgrim-staff.
Thus, for years, now, has he wandered,
All ungreeted and unknown,
Through so many a foreign country,
Bowed and broken and alone.
Weary unto death, he lays him
'Neath a tree, in evening's beam,
Music in the twigs and blossoms
Sings him to an endless dream.
Men that to and fro pass by him,
Speak in softened tones of grief;
Who may be the poor old beggar,
That has found this sad relief?
But mild Nature, soft-eyed Nature,
Knows the aged sleeper there,
Obsequies of solemn splendor,
Meet for king, will she prepare.
From the tree fall wreaths of blossoms,
Floating down to crown his head,
And a sceptre's golden lustre
Sunset on his staff hath shed.
For a canopy above him
Rustling twigs a green arch throw,
And he wears a royal purple
In the evening's mantling glow.
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