Not stinted of a rude magnificence,
His massy fins the Cactus huge expands
Beneath the Fortress:—doth he spread his hands,
In supplication crouching, or defence?
Huddled in fear, or in a grim pretence?
Scarred, thorny, with a tigrine stoop he stands,
Briarean dwarf!—and every way commands
A thousand armless palms against offence.
Fit warder he—he, in his ugly might,
For Custom-guards that never ought to be!—
But for the beauteous bastions of the Right,
Of Independence, and Home-Liberty,
Some other porter seek, or let the light
Unbroken gild them, planted on the sea!