In the far eastern East, They say, A vast forest beast Went mad, one day:

Nor was he among beast mere catlike King, But rather Councillor, a kindlier thing; Yet mad, March-mad was he As hare or man might be; Else why, all uncontrollable, assail With fierce trunk flying as a flail, The sacred person of her Majesty’s Mail?

Ah, who shall guess what dim far eastern spells Had traitorous crept to slime the mighty cells Of that large brain, routing forever thence Its recent tenant, mild Obedience? Was it long-smouldering, sudden-flaming hate For Man, the master of the dumb brute’s fate?

We only know, That day, before the dusk, Man laid him low, Hide, trump, and tusk.