TENNYSON.

The noble lion groweth old,

The weight of years his eyesight dims,

And strength deserts his mighty limbs,

His once warm blood runs slow and cold.

The sunlight of another day

Slants through the jungle's tangled mass;

He marks the shadows, but, alas!

Sees not the sun among them play.

His regal head lies buried deep

Between his paws — his reign is o'er —

His great voice stirs the world no more,

And round his lair the jackals creep.

They scent their prey, and, with the joy

Of meaner natures, far and wide

From deep obscurity they glide,

The dying monarch to annoy.

With naked fangs they circle round,

And fiercely snarl, until once more

The thicket quivers at his roar,

And all their paltry yelps are drowned.

The woodland with his voice is thrilled,

Though hope abandoned mars the strain;

But echoes cease, and then again

With jackal barks the air is filled.

Though dying, he is royal yet —

Even now, earth doth not hold his peer:

Bark, jackals, bark! ere dies the year

The world your tumult will forget.