Classic Poem

( " Le lion dort, seul sous sa voate. " )

Deep in his cave the lion rests;
Enthralled by that prodigious slumber
The sultry midday sun invests
With fiery visions without number.

The deserts list awhile with dread,
Then freelier breathe; their tyrant's home.
For the lone tracts quake 'neath his tread
What time this mighty one doth roam.

His hot breath heaves his tawny hide;
In darkness steeped is his red eye;
Deep in the cavern, on his side
He sleeps, outstretched formidably.

Sleep lulls to rest his sateless rage;
He dreams, oblivious of all wrong,
With calm brow that denotes the sage,
With dread fangs that bespeak the strong.

The wells are drunk by noontide's drouth;
Of nought but slumber is he fain.
Like a cavern is his huge mouth,
And like a forest his ruddy mane.

He scans vast craggy heights difform,
Ossa or Pelion scales with might,
Amid those darkling dreams enorme
Wherein but lions take delight.

Upon the bare rock nought is heard
Where lordly feet are wont to stray.
If now one heavy paw were stirred,
What myriad flies would flit away!