From the myrr and palm,
And the ripe, voluptuous lips of the lotus.
The waves that ride on his mighty tide
Were poured from the urns of unvisited mountains;
And their sweets of the South mingle cool in the mouth,
With the freshness and sparkle of Northern fountains.
Again and again
The goblet we drain—
Diviner a stream never Nereid swam on:
For Isis and Orus