Somewhere to the Moonward, or Sunward, so to speak;
A span or two to Eastward, then Southward by a streak,
Was heard to blare of tomtom a shameless epic wail,
At fancy of some Lion who had whisked his blooming tail
Plumb thro' a nest of hornets, nor never dreamt the hive
Had such a trick to mind him how were that tail alive.
And it seems the skies were blathering while every wind-god swore
The Pities would have curdled to hear the Beastie roar.
All offered salve and comfort, said never done was Wrong,
But some requiting Themis should venge it to her song;
Should smite the pesting dwarfies and heal the giant's bruise,
See paw and toothie peak not for lack of worthy use.
And, O, the strain fell whopping to thunder--drip of sooth,
A lamb-like lyric slopping its pace with bleary ruth;
Nay, in sober last, an epic, outworking thro' the fact,
Through blaze of hostile numbers, its own and bitter act.
And it shook us to the Westward--a touch of kin and near--
We banged our shoppy hatches: we had a right to hear.