It lies before me there, and my own breath Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside The living head I stood in honor'd pride, Talking of lovely things that conquer death. Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneath Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-ey'd, And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath. There seems a love in hair, though it be dead. It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread Of our frail plant,--a blossom from the tree Surviving the proud trunk;--as though it said Patience and gentleness is power; in me Behold affectionate eternity. XL. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. LEIGH HUNT. King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride; And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!" De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be; He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!" She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then look'd on him and smiled; He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild: The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regain'd his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! "In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!" * * * * * _Rough wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches strain, Deep caves and dreary main, Wail, for the world's wrong._ _A Dirge_.--SHELLEY. XLI. THE CLOUD. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.--1792-1822. I.