Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
   The den expands, and expectation mute
   Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls. 
   Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
   And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
   The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: 
   Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
   His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.