'Halt, who goes there?' ''Tis for the new-born king,
In long processions see what gifts we bring.
Here cometh Care with sheaf of troubled years,
And here is Grief with dish of women's tears.
Frail Glory, too, holds out her heavy crown,
And Joy comes pale with merry eyes cast down,
Sweet Love drags slow by passion's eager feet
To make alarm into a swift retreat,
Here Marriage leads the law-selected wife,
And yonder Death with the assassin's knife.'

And as they stood before the palace gate,
Now all disturbed to wonder and to wait.
A little ghost from out the palace ran
And through the crowd to force his way began,
Their mourning garments beat about his face.
He thrust black Care and Glory from their place,
Love took one hand, the other held by Joy,
Who ran to safety with the pretty boy.

Then soon from far came laughter strangely sweet
And on the floor of Heaven running feet.

The soldier closed the clanging palace gate
Upon the crowd who murmured still to wait.
'Take back your gifts, you may not pass,' he said.
'Hear the bell toll—the little king is dead.'