Ere his is but a name.
Soft zephyrs shall caress his crown,
And curl around his form;
Horus, of old, shall oft go down;
While many a dreadful storm
Shall drench the monarch to the skin,
And ravage Bagot’s Park,
Ere his stout heart shall yield within
Its noble coat of bark.
Though grand his mien, he never boasts,