The Proud Pebble

At the top of a slope a pebble lay,
At the top of a sandy dune;
And he sung to himself in a lordly way,
To a slow and majestic tune:
“Oh, I am the king of the beach below,
That curves to the north and the south;
And I am the king of the boats that go
To the busy harbor’s mouth.
“Yes, I am the king of the swaying tide, And the waves that lightly race;
And I am the king of the ocean wide
To the very end of space.”
The pebble looked down from his outlook clear
On a stone at the foot of the slope.
“Poor creature,” said he, “of a lower sphere,
Condemned to grovel and grope.
“But some are made to be stately and grave, And some are born to obey,
As yonder stone was made for a slave,
And I was born to hold sway.”
A boy just then, with a kick of his toe,
Sent the stone some inches aside,
And down forthwith, reluctant and slow,
The cliff began to glide.
Higher and higher the movements reach
On the dune’s steep sloping face,
Till they touch our pebble of lordly speech,
And draw it down to the base.
There it lies by the side of the stone,
And it has not a word to say
About the folks who are born to a throne,
And the folks who are born to obey.