Nimrod the Cushite sat upon a throne Of gold, encrusted with the sapphire stone, And round the monarch stood, in triple rank, Three hundred ruddy pages, like a bank Of roses all a-blow. Two gentle boys, with blue eyes clear as glass, And locks as light as tufted cotton grass, And faces as the snow That lies on Ararat, and flushes pink On summer evenings, as the sun doth sink, Were stationed by the royal golden chair With fillets of carnation in their hair, And clothed in silken vesture, candid, clean, To flutter fans of burnished blue and green, Fashioned of peacock’s plume. A little lower, on a second stage On either side, was placed a graceful page, To raise a fragrant fume— With costly woods and gums on burning coals That glowed on tripods, in bright silver bowls; And at the basement of the marble stair, Sweet singing choirs and harping minstrels were, In amber kirtles purple gilt and sashed. The throbbing strings in silver ripples flashed, Where slaves the choral song Accompanied with psaltery and lyre, In red and saffron, like to men of fire, Whilst hoarsely boomed the gong: Or silver cymbals clashed, or, waxing shrill, Danced up the scale a flute’s melodious thrill.