Baskets well filled, they choose each vantage-ground,
Until each hill a sea of faces shows,
A sea of sparkling joy and rippling mirth.

At trumpet-sound all eyes are eager turned
Up toward the palace gates, now open wide,
From whence a gay procession issues forth,
A chorus of musicians coming first,
And next the prince mounted on Kantaka;
Then all the high-born, youth in rich attire,
Mounted on prancing steeds with trappings gay;
And then the good old king, in royal state,
On his huge elephant, white as the snow,
Surrounded by his aged counselors,
Some on their chargers, some in litters borne,
Their long white beards floating in every breeze;
And next, competitors for every prize:
Twelve archers, who could pierce the lofty swans
Sailing from feeding-grounds by distant seas
To summer nests by Thibet's marshy lakes,
Or hit the whirring pheasant as it flies--
For in this peaceful reign they did not make
Men targets for their art, and armor-joints
The marks through which to pierce and kill;
Then wrestlers, boxers, those who hurl the quoit,
And runners fleet, both lithe and light of limb;
And then twelve mighty spearmen, who could pierce
The fleeing boar or deer or fleet gazelle;
Then chariots, three horses yoked to each,
The charioteers in Persian tunics clad,