 | Knitting-work |  |
NEW ENGLAND'S LION.
A lion 's in our path, but not like him,
In Eastern climes, the monarch of the wood,
Whose roaring echoes through the jungles dim,
In which he lurks in sanguinary mood,
Waiting to lay his predatory paw
Unprayerfully on what may come as prey,
And by the force of his own mighty law
Make all pay toll who cross his royal way.
New England's lion greets us by our path,
His bright eye, golden in its rim of green,
Flashes not on us with a glance of wrath,
But e'er in sweet placidity is seen.
Between the lions of the East and West,
The Dandelion I proclaim the best.
In Eastern climes, the monarch of the wood,
Whose roaring echoes through the jungles dim,
In which he lurks in sanguinary mood,
Waiting to lay his predatory paw
Unprayerfully on what may come as prey,
And by the force of his own mighty law
Make all pay toll who cross his royal way.
New England's lion greets us by our path,
His bright eye, golden in its rim of green,
Flashes not on us with a glance of wrath,
But e'er in sweet placidity is seen.
Between the lions of the East and West,
The Dandelion I proclaim the best.
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