To guide your iron footsteps as ye go,
But I, your king, will marshal you to flow
From shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell,
That I may ride before you terrible;
And bring my sceptre of the amber weed,
And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall lead
Your summer hosts, when these are ambling low,
In azure and in ermine, to and fro.”
He said, and madly, with his wasted hand
Swept o’er the tuneless harp, and fast he spanned