Now at the monarch’s signal, pages twain, With sunny hair as ripened autumn grain, And robed in lustrous silver tissue, shot With changing hues of blue forget-me-not, Start nimbly forth, and bend Before the monarch, at his gilded stool, And crystal goblets brimming, sweet and cool, Obsequiously extend; But Nimrod, slightly stirring, stately, calm, Towards the right-hand beaker thrusts his arm, And, languid, raises it towards his lips; Yet ere he of the ruby liquor sips, He notices upon the surface lie— Fallen in and fluttering—a feeble fly, With draggled wings outspread. Then shot from Nimrod’s eyes an angry flare, And passionately down the marble stair The costly draught he shed. He spoke no word, but with a finger wave, Made signal to a scarlet-vested slave; And as the lad before him, quaking, kneels, Above him swift the gleaming falchion wheels, Then flashes down, and, with one leap, his head Bounds from his shoulders, and bespirts with red The alabaster floor. And, mingled with the outpoured Persian wine, Descends the steps a sliding purple line Of smoking, dribbled gore; And floats the little midge upon a flood Of fragrant grape-juice, and of roseate blood.