On Mr. Nettleship’s Picture at the Royal Hibernian Academy

Yonder the sickle of the moon sails on, But here the Lioness licks her soft cub Tender and fearless on her funeral pyre; Above, saliva dripping from his jaws, The Lion, the world’s great solitary, bends Lowly the head of his magnificence And roars, mad with the touch of the unknown, Not as he shakes the forest; but a cry Low, long and musical. A dew-drop hung Bright on a grass blade’s under side, might hear Nor tremble to its fall. The fire sweeps round Re-shining in his eyes. So ever moves The flaming circle of the outer Law, Nor heeds the old, dim protest and the cry The orb of the most inner living heart Gives forth. He, the Eternal, works His will.