Whirl 'mid the redness of the Libyan sands,
That drank the spilth of Bacchus, sparkling-spun
From the Bacchante bowl, a beaded red
O'er the slant edge, that twinkled in the sun,
The tiger sun fierce-glaring overhead.
"What made gold Horus smile with golden lips?
Anubis dire forget his ghosts to lead
To Hell's profoundness?—He, who stayed to sip
One winking bubble from the wine-god's cup,
And, captive ever after, joined thy train?—