Helen and Paris on their bridal night, Under the swinging cressets' starry light, With Priam and his fifty sons around, Feasting in all their majesty and bloom, Filling their golden cups with eager hands, To drink a health, while pale Cassandra stands With all her raven tresses unbound, Her soul o'ershadowed by the coming doom. Andromache, with all her tearful charms, Folded upon the mighty Hector's breast, And the babe shrinking in its Nurse's arms, Affrightened by the nodding of his crest. The giant Cyclops, sitting in his cave, Helped by the diving Ulysses, old and wise, Spilling the wine in rivers down his beard, Shaggy and grim,--his shoulder overleered By swart Silenus, sly and cunning knave, Who steals a puffy skin with twinkling eyes. Anacreon, lolling in the myrtle shades, Bibbing his Teian draughts with rich delight, Pledging the dancing girls and Cyprian maids, Pinching their little ears, and shoulders white. A cloudless sunrise on the glittering Nile, A bronzed Sphinx, and temple on the shore, And robed priests that toss their censers while Abased in dust, the populace adore; A beaked galley fretting at its curb, With reedy oars, and masts, and silken sails, And Cleopatra walks the deck superb, Slow-followed by her court in spangled veils. The Virgin Mother, and the Holy Child, Holding a globe and sceptre, sweet and mild; The Magi bring their gifts with reverent looks, And the rapt Shepherds lean upon their crooks. A summer fete, a party on a lawn; Bowing gallants, with plumed caps in hand, And ladies with guitars, and, far withdrawn, The rustic people dancing in a band. A bleak defile, a pass in mountains deep, Whose whitened summits wear their morning glow, And dark banditti winding down the steep Of shelvy rocks, pointing their guns below. A harvest scene, a vineyard on the Rhine; Arbors, and wreathed pales, and laughing swains Pouring their crowded baskets into wains, And vats, and trodden presses gushing wine. A Flemish Tavern: boors and burghers hale Drawn round a table, o'er a board of chess, Smoking their heavy pipes, and drinking ale, Blowing from tankard brims the frothiness.