Dark brindled hairs in bristling ranks behind,
Rise o’er his back and rustle in the wind;
Clothe his lank sides, his shrivelled limbs surround,
And human hands with talons print the ground.
Lolls his red tongue, and from the reedy side
Of slow Euphrates laps the muddy tide.
Silent, in shining troups, the Courtier throng
Pursue their monarch as he crawls along;
E’en Beauty pleads in vain with smiles and tears,
Not Flattery’s self can pierce his pendant ears.