Fragrant with Champak scents the warm wind sighs
Heavily, faintly, languorously fanned
By drowsy peacock-plumes--to keep the flies
From your full nose and eyes--
Waved from behind you, where on either hand
Two silent slaves of Nubian polish stand,
Whose patent-leather visages reflect
The convex day, with mirror-like effect.

Robed in a garment of the choicest spoil
Of Persian looms, you sit apart to deal
Grace to the suppliant and reward for toil,
T'abase the proud, and boil
The malefactor, till upon you steal
Mild qualms suggestive of the mid-day meal;
And, then, what plump, what luscious fruits are those?
What goblets of what vintage? Goodness knows.

Gladly would I pursue this glowing dream,
To sing of deeds of chivalry and sport,
Of cushioned dalliance in the soft hareem
(A really splendid theme),
The pundits and tame poets at your court,
And all such pride, but I must keep it short.
Once let me off upon a thing so bright,
And I should hardly stop without a fight.

But now you stand plain Mister; and, no doubt,
Would have for choice this visioned pomp untold.