The dragon is grim greed. The Saint's long spear,
That once transfixed it, can no longer touch.
No land is safe from its sting, blood-drain, or clutch--
For it takes Protean shapes; 'tis, therefore, clear,
Since good Saint George has failed to re-appear
To mortal sight, save in the King's escutch--
Worn off at edge and blurred with Tudor smudge--
Freedom must drive the Dragon off this sphere.
The Dragon's soarings cause the sun's eclypse.--
Hark! is that thunder, God's collapsing skys?
No; 'tis the Eagle, with un-hooded eyes
And lightening flash from beak to pinion tips,
Seizing the Dragon that, despite its slips
From form to form--craft, gold and false sunrise--
Can not elude his eye and talon grips.