Behold the tiger, proud, whose failing light—

That flickering flame of orange now fading fast;

Lost in the dwindling jungle’s waning night

Where once he burned—eternity to last.

Few prey now feel those dreadful scimitars,

That feared blood-roar beneath a yellow moon,

Or see that snarling muzzle rife with scars

And know the terror face of certain doom—

Of embered amber eyes to see no more,

No shadowed paths fresh spoored by hidden claws;

No matchless stealth to haunt the forest’s floor—

His rough rasped chuff forever given pause.

Yes He who made him also made the lamb…

And marked as well the insolence of man.