II
The dragon is grim greed. The Saint's long spear,
That once transfixed it, can no longer touch.
No land is safe from its sting, blood-drain, or clutch—
For it takes Protean shapes; 'tis, therefore, clear,
Since good Saint George has failed to re-appear
To mortal sight, save in the King's escutch—
Worn off at edge and blurred with Tudor smudge—
Freedom must drive the Dragon off this sphere.
The Dragon's soarings cause the sun's eclypse.—
Hark! is that thunder, God's collapsing skys?
No; 'tis the Eagle, with un-hooded eyes
And lightening flash from beak to pinion tips,
Seizing the Dragon that, despite its slips
From form to form—craft, gold and false sunrise—
Can not elude his eye and talon grips.