Classic Poem

Between the pillars let him stand!
The fireless eyes, the fettered hand,
The Lion-Fox that vexed the land!

By Baal! but the sport was rare
To take the cunning in our snare,
The Lion, by his yellow hair!

The world grows weary of the jest,
And there are shadows in the west;
Between the pillars let him rest!

Perhaps to dream, as captives will,
That on Philistia's sacred hill
His feet of triumph trample still.

To-morrow,—be the darkness short!—
Refreshed in rage, our gentle court
Shall bait the Titan for our sport!

So peace, from pinnacle to porch,
With naked bone or blazing torch
Never more to smite or scorch!

And there was peace; and we have read
The simple prayer the captive said,
The blind man as he bowed his head;

And when the voice of other wail
Is still in story, let the tale
Of Agonistes turn us pale.