Thrasher's Call

(in the style of Shelley's "Ozymandias")

I found a missive from an antique land, which read: when blasts of scorching wind have blown and dust-cloud chokes, and trials’ cruel brand has withered flow’r, and scathed dry bone, what pride, what prince, what status stands? Only these: the meek, the lowly dead, can yet survive; the broken things of earthen clay, by sculptor spread and stretched, and healed by furnace blaze; made fit to serve the King of Kings, perfect works for His use and care. Nothing beside remains; all ‘round decay seizes self-reliance wrecked, when strength is bare, and princely riches fade away.