The Circus Lion

The spoil of cunning human hands
 * The tawny lion lies,

Dreaming, perchance, of desert sands
 * And far-off Lybian skies.

He sees the tombs of kings rise dark
 * The moonlight on the plain...

While a pale, narrow-shouldered clerk
 * Makes comments on his mane!

He rises, snarling at the hands
 * That point their feeble fun,

And longs upon those midnight sands
 * To see the red blood run.

He beats the rough boards with his tail,
 * His great jaws gnash their rage,

But what can royal strength avail
 * Against a bar-set cage?

His muscles strain, his eyes go dark,
 * He crouches for a spring...

Secure, the flaccid, weakling clerk
 * Laughs at the Captive King!