| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| His pleading voice arose: “O Lord, | |
| Be merciful to me, a fool! | |
| |
| “No pity, Lord, could change the heart | |
| From red with wrong to white as wool: | |
| The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord, | 15 |
| Be merciful to me, a fool! | |
| |
| “’T is not by guilt the onward sweep | |
| Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; | |
| ’T is by our follies that so long | |
| We hold the earth from heaven away. | 20 |
| |
| “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— | 25 |
| 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; | 30 |
| 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, O Lord, | 35 |
| 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!” | 40 |
| |
