There’s none to shun his challenge—they must meet him soon or late,
And he knows a cunning trick for all heels.
The king’s haughty crown drops in jeers from his pate
As the hold closes on him, and he reels.
The burly and the proud, the braggarts of the crowd,
Every one of them he topples down in thunder.
His grip grows mild for the dotard and the child,
But alike they must all go under.
Oh, many a mighty foeman would try a fall with him—
Persepolis and Babylon and Rome,