Not most the crouching spring, the forest-roar,
The lion-pace, the lion-power express;
By such strong signs as these he conquers less
Than in that pulse-beat’s time, when, wounded sore,
He gathers all himself, and stands once more
Unshaken in his sombre kingliness,
Too great the deadly keenness to confess
Of traitor steel sent clean to the heart’s core:
Sighs Iago, bent in soothing half-embrace,
“A little this hath dashed your mood, I wot!”
Then, majesty at full in eyes and face,
Large soul to the lower’s level stooping not,
Dark head thrown back, with that grand Southern grace
He waves his eloquent hands—“Nay, not a jot!”