The emperour called
him into his presence, and gave into his hand the
keys of riches, and the sabre of command. The
voice of Morad was heard from the cliffs of Taurus
to the Indian ocean, every tongue faltered in his
presence, and every eye was cast down before him.
Morad lived many years in prosperity; every
day increased his wealth, and extended his influence.
The sages repeated his maxims, the captains
of thousands waited his commands. Competition
withdrew into the cavern of envy, and discontent
trembled at his own murmurs. But human greatness
is short and transitory, as the odour of incense
in the fire. The sun grew weary of gilding the
palaces of Morad, the clouds of sorrow gathered
round his head, and the tempest of hatred roared
about his dwelling.
Morad saw ruin hastily approaching. The first
that forsook him were his poets; their example was
followed by all those whom he had rewarded for
contributing to his pleasures, and only a few, whose
virtue had entitled them to favour, were now to be seen
in his hall or chambers. He felt his danger, and
prostrated himself at the foot of the throne. His
accusers were confident and loud, his friends stood
contented with frigid neutrality, and the voice of truth
was overborne by clamour.
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