Elegy On A Rhinoceros (Recently Deceased)

Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead.     Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters lave     The busy marge, he lies unvisited,     Unsung; above no cypress branches wave,     Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave;     Only would these poor numbers advertise     His copious charms, and mourn for his demise.     Blithesome was he and beautiful; the Zoo     Hath nought to match with Begum. He was one     Of infinite humour; well indeed he knew     To catch with mobile lips th' impetuous bun     Tossed him-ward by some sire-encouraged son,     Half-fearful, yet of pride fulfilled to note     The dough, swift-homing down th' exultant throat.     Whilom he pensive stood, infoliate     Of comfortable mud, and idly stirred     His tiny caudal, disproportionate     But not ungraceful, while a wanton herd     Of revellers the mystic lens preferred;     Whereof the focus rightly they addrest;     And, Phoebus being kind, the button prest.     Then, being frolic, he, as one distraught,     Would blindly, stumbling, seek the watery verge     And sink, nor rise again. But when, untaught     In craft, the mourners raised the untimely dirge,     Lo! otherwhere himself would swift emerge     Incontinent, and crisp his tasselled ears;     And, all vivacious, own the sounding cheers.     Nothing of dark suspicion nor of guile     Was limned on Begum; his the mirthful glance,     The genial port, the comprehensive smile: -     The very sunbeams shimmering loved to dance     Within that honest, open countenance; -     And far as eye could pierce, his roomy grin     Was pink, as 'twere Aurora dwelt therein.     Yet he is dead! Whether the froward cates     Some lawless lodgment found, nor coughs released:     Or if adown those hospitable gates     Drave the strong North, or shrilled the ravening East,     And, ill-requiting, slew the wretched beast,     We nothing know; only the news is cried,     Begum is dead: we know not how he died.     Still, though the callous bards neglect to hymn     Thy praises, Begum; though, on dross intent,     The hireling sculptor pauseth not to limn     Thy spacious visage, kindly hands are bent     E'en now to stuff thy frail integument.     Then sleep in peace, Belovd; blest Sultn     Of some Rhinokeraunian Devachn.