The New York Journal, And Weekly Register

POET's CORNER.

A SCRAP.

How much they love to know,
From royalty: who fancy that a crown,
Because it glistens must be lin'd with down,
With out-side show and vain appearance caught
They look no further, and by folly taught,
Prize high the toys of thrones, but never find
One of the many cares which lurk behind
The gem they worship, which a crown adorns,
Nor once suspect that crown is lin'd with thorns.
O might reflection folly's place supply;
Would we one moment use her piercing eye,
Then should we learn what woe from grandeur springs,
And learn to pity, not to envy, kings.
The villager, born humbly and bred hard,
Content his wealth, and poverty his guard,
In action simply just, in conscience clear,
By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear.
His means but scanty and his wants but few,
Labour his business and his pleasure too:
Enjoys more comforts in a single hour,
Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to power.
Not so the king—with anxious cares opprest,
His bosom labours, and admits not rest;
A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight
Of majesty, and gives up ease for state.
"Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound
Which takes not solid virtue for its ground."