That his beasts may browse, unscathed,
The succulent, wounded green.
He thought to have me, broken,
And grovelling at his feet;
Mouthing and mumbling to his sandal-ties,
In stammering dread of death--
Aye! even as a king,
Who, having from death's hand,
Received his crown and kingdom,
For ever treads in terror of the hour