I, who, a scarce-weaned boy,

Have toddled, gay and fearless,

Down the narrow jungle-track,

Through bodeful forest-darkness, panther-eyed;

And have felt cold snakes uncoiling

And gliding 'neath my naked sole,

From clammy slumber startled;

While, with sharp snap and crackle,

Beast-trodden branches strained behind me,

My father's hand scarce snatching me

Before the spring of crouching death!

But, naught of this the King could know,

He only knew that, on that far-off morning,

When first I came before him, captive,

Among my captive brothers,

And, as he lightly held, in idle fingers,

Above my unbowed head,

In equal poise

Death's freedom

Or the servitude of life,

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