By wise Chaldæan sorcerers, the light,
Majestic, of the new-born Syrian star;
Yea, and our Rhine fed by its cataracts,
Whose forests keep the night, and Danube full
Where Ovid mourned the loss of all his loves,
And in the hollow land Eurotas clear,
Cold with the streaming snows of Taygetus,
The nurse and mother of that austere brood
Sprung from the loins of Heracles, and those
Twin sons of Leda, for whom Helen’s eyes