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Grant that all the kings assemble At whose tread the Scythians tremblem Grant that in the train be they Whom the Red-Sea shores obey, Where the gems and crystal caves Sparkle up through purple waves ; Bring with these the Caspian stout, Who scorns to shut th' invader out, And the daring race that tread The rocking of the Danube's bed, With those again, where'er they be, Who, lapp'd in silken luxury, Feed, to the full, their lordly willThe noble mind is monarch still.
No need has he of vulgar force,
Reges conveniant licet,
Nil ullis opus est equis,
Nor all the idle darts that light
Telis, quæ procul ingerit
Rex est, qui metuit nihil;
BACCHUS, OR THE PIRATES.
FROM HOMER-HYMN V.
OF Bacchus let me tell a sparkling story.
No sooner were they off, than gath'ring round him They mark'd his lovely strength, and would have bound When lo, instead of this, the ponderous bands
[him; Snapp'd of themselves from off his legs and hands, He, all the while, discovering no surprise, But keeping, as before, his calm black eyes.
At this the Master, struck beyond the rest,
Trust me, the ship will not sustain him long;
He said; and thus, in bitterness of heart, The Captain answer'd— Wretched that thou art! Truly we've much to fear-afavouring gale, And all things firm behind the running sail ! Stick to thy post, and leave these things to men. I trust, my friends, before we sail again, To touch at Ægypt, Cyprus, or the north, And having learnt meantime our prisoner's worth, What friends he has, and wealth to what amount, To turn this god-send to a right account:"
He said ; and hauling up the sail and mast, Drew the tight vessel stiff before the blast; The sailors, under arms, observe their prize, When lo, strange doings interrupt their eyes; For first, a fountain of sweet-smelling wine Came gushing o'er the deck with sprightly shine ; And odours, not of earth, their senses took : The pallid wonder spread from look to look ; And then a vine-tree overran the sail, Its green arms tossing to the pranksome gale ; And then an ivy, with a flowering shoot, Ran up the mast in rings, and kiss'd the fruit, Which here and there the dipping vine let down; On every oar there was a garland crownBut now the crew call'd out “ To shore! To shore !" When leaping backward with an angry roar,
The dreadful stranger to a lion turn'd;
in his own shape, the God's at hand,
The God then turning to the Master, broke
And so, all reverence and all joy to thee,