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125

THE BEAR AND HIS LEADER

I

With dust of travel on his feet,
And lust of evil in his eye,
He strides along, the “tum-tums” beat,
The dogs all bark, the urchins fly.
A prouder type of Nature's child
One well might search the world to find,
Strong, and untameable, and wild,
Yet learn'd in cunning of a kind.
His stalwart limbs show lithe and brown
Betwixt the rents in coloured rags,
As thus he goes from to town
With swinging gait that never flags.
126

The hot sun beats upon his brow,
Beneath its mat of tangled hair,
His fierce teeth gleam in even row
(This is the man, and not the bear).

II

Patient and meek, with head abased,
And weary steps that lag and strain,
He follows, sad and solemn-faced,
A captive, led by noose and chain.
His eyes are humbled to the dust,
He scarcely seems to see or hear;
He takes no heed of shove or thrust,
Of playful gibe or cruel jeer.
He dreams, maybe, of forest-home,
This victim of an adverse fate;
Of fruited bough, and honeycomb,
And sportive young, and tender mate.
127

“How long? How long?” he seems to sigh;
“Oh, weary while since this began!
My feet are sore, my throat is dry!”
(This is the bear, and not the man.)
As thus along the village street
They pass, this uncongenial pair,
I think, “Which would I rather meet
Alone, the leader or the bear?”
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