Sonnet LIV

A PERSIAN KING TO HIS SON.

FROM A PROSE TRANSLATION

IN SIR WILLIAM JONES' ESSAY

ON THE POETRY OF THE EASTERN NATIONS.

Guard thou, my Son, the Helpless and the Poor,

Nor in the chains of thine own indolence

Slumber enervate, while the joys of sense

Engross thee; and thou say'st, “I ask no more.”—

Wise Men the Shepherd's slumber will deplore

When the rapacious Wolf has leapt the fence,

And ranges thro' the fold.—My Son, dispense

Those laws, that justice to the Wrong'd restore.—

The Common-Weal shou'd be the first pursuit

Of the crown'd Warrior, for the royal brows

The People first enwreath'd.—They are the Root,

The King the Tree. Aloft he spreads his boughs

Glorious; but learn, impetuous Youth, at length,

Trees from the Root alone derive their strength.