by
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,
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;
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,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
“ ‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of
truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‘Tis by our follies that so
long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
“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—
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 clense them all;
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, 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!”