And the last light dies from their path;

For the midnight of his mane

Lifts to the stars with his wrath.

From the East to the West he is crouching.

He snuffs at the North-East wind.

His breast upon Britain is couching.

His haunches quiver on Ind.

It is night, black night, where he lies;

But a kingdom and a fleet

Shall burn in his terrible eyes