LAY OF THE LOST LION

Advise me, Muse! How shall I tell in verse the dire events

that our historical town beheld of late, when through these peaceful streets

a lion rampant, rampaged up and down?

Lo, thus Sir Walter would essay to tell in tragic numbers how the facts befell:

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Leo at eve had ate his fill

So it was not with wish to kill

His dash for liberty he made.

He merely longed to seek the shade

Of some old garden, to forget

The circus din, his paws to wet

One more in dew, and there to make

His lair till morning bade him wake.

But loud behind him broke the noise

Of those who followed, men and boys

Intent to capture him again,

To mew him in his narrow pen.

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As chief who hears his warden call

"To arms! The foeman storm the wall",

The noble monarch of the waste

Sprang forward, then, increased his haste,

 Sneaked round the fence of Tucker house

As quietly as the merest mouse.

Passed Thompson's gate, not paused, I ween,

Until the Audrey House was seen.

A moment then he turned to eye

His would-be captors drawing nigh,

A moment paused, then forward crept,

 And on Miss Cora's porch he leapt.

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Nay, dear Sir Walter Scott, it will not do!

Thy colour's all too faint for such a scene. 

I'll turn to Campbell and request his aid

To tell what happened on the Palace Green:

 

In Williamsburg the sun was low

All gold the buttercups did glow,

While calm, Miss Cora's face did show

A peaceful sweet swerenity.

 

But, oh, how differently was the sight

How dreadful was Miss Cora's plight

When sudden clamour filled the night

With yells of wild ferocity.

 

The house shook as though steeds were driven

O'er wall and roof; a blind was riven,

 As though a lightning bold from Heaven

Had crashed its red artillery.

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No, Campbell, no; thy words, though filled with fire,

Though spirited the tale thou dost relate

Still even though canst not full justice do

To those fair ladies and their tragic state

When at their window the fierce lion sprung.

Perchance could Poe more fittingly have sung:

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Once upon an evening rosy, while they chatted calm and cosy

Round the lamp whose radiance gleamed on polished furniture and floor,

Suddenly there rose a crashing round of something madly dashing,

Madly stamping, fiercely smashing, smashing at the walls and door.

" 'tis a lunatic," they muttered, "smashing in our ancient door.

This was never done before!"

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Miss Estelle in indignation made an angry declaration

That this racket on their threshold must be stopped foreveermore.

Then her heart well nigh topped beating, and she pallid stood repeating

For she has a vision fleeting, fleeting vision, nothing more

Of a lion at the window. "Sister, hear that awful roar.

'Tis a lion, nothing more!"

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But Miss Cora's eyes were darting fire, and loud she shrieked, upstarting:

"Make this circus put their lion back into his cage once more,

Make them give us some token that they'll mend the blind he's broken.

Lo, I mean that what I have spoken. That that beast from my front door.

Take his claws out of my shutters and his footprints from the floor."

The lion answered with a roar.

 

Alas! O Muse of Poesy divine,

E'en this great poet's measure it too weak

To do full justice to this moving theme

With tongues of men or angels though he speak.

Nay, to the future let us turn our eyes.

Perchance in days to come the world may see

A genius, golden-tongued, to fame arise

By telling with immortal minstrelsy,

In verses which will win him lasting glory,

 Of "The Smith's Lion", the whole wondrous story.

 

- Mrs. George Coleman

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