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.