From the Painting by Rosa Bonheur. Engraved by Horace Baker.
The Lions.
Leigh Hunt.
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,And ‘mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed:And truly ‘twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,—Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another,Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother;The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air:Said Francis, then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than there.”
De Lorge’s love o’erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame,With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;She thought, “The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be, He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;I’ll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.”
She dropped her glove, to prove his love; then looked at him, and smiled;He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained the place,Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face.”In faith,” cried Francis, “rightly done!” and he rose from where he sat;”No love,” quoth he, “but vanity sets love a task like that.”
—Leigh Hunt.
TRUE GROWTH.
It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make man better be;Or standing like an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere;A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night—It was the plant and flower of Light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.
—Ben Jonson.
