A picture of Cathay, a justice scene; Pagodas, statues, and a group around; And, in his sedan chair, the Mandarin, Reading the scroll of laws to prisoners bound, Bambooed with canes, and writhing on the ground; And many more whose veils I will undraw Some other day, exceeding fresh and fine; And statues of the Grecian gods divine, In all their various moods of love and awe: The Phidean Jove, with calm creative face, Like Heaven brooding o'er the deeps of Space; Imperial Juno, Mercury, winged-heeled, Lit with a message. Mars with helm and shield, Apollo with the discus, bent to throw, The piping Pan, and Dian with her bow, And Cytherca just risen from the swell Of crudded foam, half-stooping on her knee, Wringing her dripping tresses in the sea Whose loving billows climb the curved shell Tumultuously, and o'er its edges flow, And kiss with pallid lips her nakedness of snow! VII. My boots may lie and mould, However rare and old; I cannot read to-day, Away! with books, away! Full-fed with sweets of sense, I sink upon my couch in honied indolence! Here are rich salvers full of nectarines, Dead-ripe pomegranates, sweet Arabian dates, Peaches and plums, and clusters fresh from vines, And all imaginable sweets, and cakes, And here are drinking-cups, and long-necked flasks In wicker mail, and bottles broached from casks, In cellars delved deep, and winter cold, Select, superlative, and centuries old. What more can I desire? what book can be As rich as Idleness and Luxury? What lore can fill my heart with joy divine, Like luscious fruitage, and enchanted wine? Brimming with Helicon I dash the cup; Why should I waste my years in hoarding up The thoughts of eld? Let dust to dust return: No more for me,--my heart is not an urn! I will no longer sip from little flasks, Covered with damp and mould, when Nature yields, And Earth is full of purple vintage fields; Nor peer at Beauty dimmed with mortal masks, When I at will may have them all withdrawn, And freely gaze in her transfigured face; Nor limp in fetters in a weary race, When I may fly unbound, like Mercury's fawn; No more contented with the sweets of old, Albeit embalmed in nectar, since the trees, The Eden bowers, the rich Hesperides, Droop all around my path, with living fruits of gold! VIII.