42 
THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. 
 
The god hath on harsh face.  
Take me home now ! 
 
ALEXANDER to the Ist satyr 
 
What next ? 
How shall a babe scarce- sexed  
Avail when the dread offering  
Of the world’s mightiest king  
Is not received ? 
 
IST SATYR 
 
Impale 
You trembling fawn too frail 
Upon that ivory ruby rod 
That juts from the azure throne of God ! 
Then — as the scream chills the blue air, 
Draw the curved steel along 
The snow-pure throat !  Hold the bright hair 
Firm in one swarthy grip ;  
And ere the blood leap strong  
Suck with insensate lip  
That wine of Pan !  Ah, drink !  
Great king — as if the brink  
Of Ganymede’s own cup flowed over,