Are bounds and barriers, tales of Destiny,

Death, and the fabled impotence of man?

Already, in his marching dream,

Men at his sun-like coming seem

As with an inspiration stirr'd, and he

To kindle with new thoughts degenerate nations,

In sordid cares immersed so long;

Thrill'd with ethereal exultations

And a victorious expectancy,

Even such as swell'd the breasts of Bacchus' throng,

When that triumphal burst of joy was hurl'd

Upon the wondering world;

When from the storied, sacred East afar,

Down Indian gorges clothed in green,

With flower-rein'd tigers and with ivory car

He came, the youthful god;

[7]

Beautiful Bacchus, ivy-crown'd, his hair

Blown on the wind, and flush'd limbs bare,

And lips apart, and radiant eyes,

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