And Syracusan times,—to these
Far shores and twenty centuries later.
A ragged cap was on his head;
But—hidden thus—there was no doubting
That, all with crispy locks o’erspread,
His gnarléd horns were somewhere sprouting;
His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,
Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them,
And trousers, patched of divers hues,
Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.