Room for the proud!  Ye sons of clay,
From far his sweepin pomp survey,
Nor, rashly curious, clog the way
His chariot wheels before.

Lo, with what scorn his lofty eye
Glances o'er age and poverty,
And bids intruding conscience fly
Far from his palace door.

Room for the proud! but slow the feet
That bear his coffin down the street:
And dismal seems his winding-sheet
Who purple lately wore.

Ah, where must now his spirit fly
In naked, trembling agony?
Or how shall he for mercy cry,
Who showed it not before.

Room for the proud! in ghastly state
The lords of hell his coming wait,
And flinging wide the dreadful gate
That shuts to ope no more,

'Lo here with us the seat,' they cry,
'For him who mocked at poverty,
And bade intruding conscience fly
Far from his palace door.'