Now he recalleth his triumphant days,
And fervid throes of equatorial fire
Thrill through his frame, till re-aroused desire
(His dream so shows him all his desert ways)
To lap the scented blood of what he slays,
Lifts him upon his feet; a lurid ire
Burns in his eyes, a shaggy horror stays
His mane erect in aspect grim and dire.
His eyes that are the mirror of his dream,
As slowly from their deeps the vision fades
Lose all the light wherewith they blazed and shone,
His limbs relent, and all the savage gleam
Droops in his mane to ever gloomier shades,
And with his sleep his royal mood is gone.