  Wouldst thou view the lion’s den? Search afar from haunts of men— Where the reed-encircled rill Oozes from the rocky hill, By its verdure far descried ’Mid the desert brown and wide. Close beside the sedgy brim Couchant lurks the lion grim; Watching till the close of day Brings the death-devoted prey. Heedless at the ambushed brink The tall giraffe stoops down to drink. Upon him straight the savage springs With cruel joy. The desert rings With clanging sound of desperate strife— The prey is strong and he strives for life. To shake the tyrant to the ground, He shrieks, he rushes through the waste, With glaring eye and headlong haste: In vain!—the spoiler on his prize Rides proudly—tearing as he flies. For life—the victim’s utmost speed Is mustered in this hour of need: For life—for life—his giant might He strains, and pours his soul in flight: And mad with terror, thirst and pain, Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain. ’Tis vain; the thirsty sands are drinking His streaming blood—his strength is sinking; The victor’s fangs are in his veins— His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains— His panting breast in foam and gore Is bathed—he reels—his race is o’er: He falls—and, with convulsive throe, Resigns his throat to the ravening foe! —And lo! ere quivering life has fled, The vultures, wheeling overhead, Swoop down, to watch, in gaunt array, Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey. Thomas Pringle. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
|
