There have recoiled a horde of savage, warlike chiefs, Who have been into Afric's fiery furnace thrust-- Its scorching heat to his rage greatest of reliefs. There is no being but fears Zim; to him bows down Even the sainted Llama in the holy place; And the wild Kasburder chieftain at his dark power Turns pale, and seeks a foeman of some lesser race. Cities and states are bought and sold by Soudan Zim, Whose simple word their thousand people hold as law. He ruins them at will, for what are men to him, More than to stabled cattle is the sheaf of straw? The Soudan is not pleased, for he is e'er alone, For who may in his royal sports or joys be leagued. He must never speak to any one in equal tones, But be by his own dazzling weightiness fatigued. He has exhausted all the pastimes of the earth; In vain skilled men have fought with sword, the spear, or lance, The quips and cranks most laughed at have to him no mirth; He gives a regal yawn as fairest women dance; Music has outpoured all its notes, the soft and loud, But dully on his wearied ear its accents roll, As dully as the praises of the servile crowd Who falsely sing the purity of his black soul. He has had before his daïs from the prison brought Two thieves, whose terror makes their chains to loudly ring, Then gaping most unkingly, he dismissed his slaves, And tranquilly, half rising, looked around to seek In the weighty stillness--such as broods round graves-- Something within his royal scope to which to speak. The throne, on which at length his eyes came back to rest, Is upheld by rose-crowned Sphinxes, which lyres hold, All cut in whitest marble, with uncovered breast, While their eyes contain that enigma never told. Each figure has its title carved upon its head: _Health_, and _Voluptuousness, Greatness, Joy_, and _Play_, With _Victory, Beauty, Happiness_, may be read, Adorning brands they wear unblushing in the day.