“Call no man blest until he’s dead,”
Some weakling said.
But his fathers never saw,
Like mine,
The angels bending
And the deity descending
Holding forth the diadem,
Nor saw the genius shine
As a halo ‘round his head
While the daemons fall supine
And acclaim in shrieking dread

Him King of Kings,
Of Parthia and Sardis
Sousa, Babylon and Parsa
And beyond—wherever spreads,
By horse and bow
The gospel of his might!
Behold the nations of the earth
Beneath his heedless tread—
By éntreaty or battle
Have become his cringing vassals,
By their tribute friendship beg
Bringing cattle, corn and wine,

In obeisance, earth and water
For the fire from our altar
For their temples and their hearths,
Where, before their priests shall stand,
Holding up their trembling hands,
While they pray with bursting hearts
By their smoking sacrifices
For the christed
Of Marduk
Of Set and Isis,
Of Ashur and Astaroth
Of Apollo, Dionysos
And Great Ahura-Mazda!
Wherefore
What need hath My Majesty of sages?
But orators to sing my praises,
My Investiture adorn!
The Exalted to the Sun
Who hath communicated
In the Secret of Empire—
Man’s Endeavor and Desire:
Of the Many that are One.
So! Fall upon your knees and faces,
Hands crosswise upon your breasts
And pray the son of Cyrus blest
To shift his feet upon the pavement—
And on your dust but lightly press.