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Flags, drums, and ribbons flaunt a hundred shades,
But, to make up, the banyan tree-top ample
All round with warrior forms is all a trample:
Here grenadiers condense to wine dark clusters,
Here bootless cuirassiers depend festoon-like,
And with the fig-leaves’ sheen metallic lustres
Of epaulettes and topknots twinkle moon-like.
While from all sides toward one fixt spot, like rockets,
Eyes, glazed with fear, are starting from their sockets.
Thence now emerged the prince of th’ Indian night world,
A mighty tiger. Form of horrid beauty,
With that lank grace of body, chest-nut bright, whorled
With many a belted charm and marking sooty;
From topaz eyeballs lurid glances throwing,
He paced the battlefield with lordly going,
From side to side, in many a curve expanded
Of supple grace his tail swept, darkly banded.
Then stealing past the tree, the apes one single
Disdainful glance he flung from grass-grown dingle,
Then vanished in the dusk of bamboos sear,
Scenting perchance some daintier quarry near.
But long by horror froze, with terror blind
And hair on end, the apes the banyan lined:
Not till a distant roar at last proclaimed
That all was safe again, the curdling veins
To their warm, mobile life-stream throbbed and flamed,
And thought revisited the fear-struck brains.
Then from the tree-top, where he sat astride
A jutting knot, the king, in jubilation,
Cried: “Lo! the fortress stormed!” “Hurrah!” replied
His regiments in joyous acclamation.
Soon now the insurgents feel the victor’s rancour;
