The Vase

A hand most cunning cut this ivory piece;
Here Colchis' forests are, while here combine
Brave Jason, with Medea of eye malign,
And on a stela's top the glittering Fleece.

The Nile, great source, flows here without surcease,
Near where Bacchantes, nectar-mad, entwine
The yoke of bulls with foliage-gloried vine,
While some essay the heavy yokes' release.

Beneath, are cavaliers that hack and slay,
The dead upon their bucklers borne away,
The mothers' tears, the old with doleful gaze;

For handles apt, Chimaeras who, with breast
Robust and white against the edges pressed,
Forever drink from the exhaustless vase.