The Night Of The Lion

"And that a reply be received before midnight."     British Ultimatum.     Their Day was at twelve of the night,         When the graves give up their dead.     And still, from the City, no light         Yellows the clouds overhead.     Where the Admiral stands there's a star,         But his column is lost in the gloom;     For the brazen doors are ajar,         And the Lion awakes, and the doom.     He is not of a chosen race.         His strength is the strength of the skies,     In whose glory all nations have place,         In whose downfall Liberty dies.     He is mighty, but he is just.         He shall live to the end of years.     He shall bring the proud to the dust.         He shall raise the weak to the spheres.     It is night on the world's great mart,         But the brooding hush is awake     With the march of a steady heart         That calls like the drum of Drake,     Come! And a muttering deep         As the pulse of the distant guns,     Or the thunder before the leap         Thro' the rolling thoroughfare runs.     And the wounded men go by         Like thoughts in the Lion's brain.     And the clouds lift on high         Like the slow waves of his mane     And the narrowing lids conceal         The furnaces of his eyes.     Their gold is gone out. They reveal     Only two search-lights of steel         Steadily sweeping the skies.     And we hoped he had peace in his lair         Where the bones of old tyrannies lay,     And the skulls that his cubs have stripped bare,         The old skulls they still toss in their play.     But the tyrants are risen again,         And the last light dies from their path;     For the midnight of his mane         Lifts to the stars with his wrath.     From the East to the West he is crouching.         He snuffs at the North-East wind.     His breast upon Britain is couching.         His haunches quiver on Ind.     It is night, black night, where he lies;         But a kingdom and a fleet     Shall burn in his terrible eyes     When he leaps, and the darkness dies         With the War-gods under his feet.     Till the day when a little child,         Shall lay but a hand on his mane,     And his eyes grow golden and mild         And he stands in the heavens again;     Till the day of the seventh seal,         Which the Lion alone shall rend,     When the stars from their courses reel,         His Freedom shall not end.