Hilaire Belloc (1870–1953) was a genius, if geniuses are allowed to be eccentric, grumpy, prejudiced, wicked-tongued, grandly metaphysical, and narrowly focused. Hardly any of his 150 books survives in popular memory — except perhaps his 1907 “Cautionary Tales for Children.” And that may be a fitting thing. These are among the best poems in a genre that began among the Victorians and would flourish over the next century: poems about children coming to horrible ends, offered for the delectation of child readers. Just take the one that tells of “Matilda, Who told lies and was burned to death.” Or “Rebecca, Who slammed doors for fun and perished miserably.” Or “Henry King, Who chewed bits of string and was early cut off in dreadful agonies.” Or today’s Poem of the Day, about “Jim, Who ran away from his Nurse, and was eaten by a Lion.” In these poems for children Belloc is somehow both the stuffy narrating adult, moralizing windily, and the mischievously irritating child whose adventures come to disaster. And what could be a better combination for an eccentric, grumpy, prejudiced, wicked-tongued, grandly metaphysical, and narrowly focused genius?

Jim
Who ran away from his Nurse, and was eaten by a Lion
by Hilaire Belloc

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside,
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo —
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know — at least you ought to know.
For I have often told you so —
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;

Now this was Jim’s especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!
He hadn’t gone a yard when — Bang!
With open Jaws, a Lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.

Now just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.

No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted “Hi!”
The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
“Ponto!” he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion’s name),
“Ponto!” he cried, with angry Frown.
“Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!”

The Lion made a sudden Stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper’s eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say: —
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, “Well — it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!”
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James’ miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.

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With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems will be typically drawn from the lesser-known portion of the history of English verse. In the coming months we will be reaching out to contemporary poets for examples of current, primarily formalist work, to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.