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.