They see Tiresias deg. deg.135
Sitting, staff in hand,
On the warm, grassy
Asopus deg. bank, deg.138
His robe drawn over
His old, sightless head, 140
Revolving inly
The doom of Thebes. deg. deg.142

They see the Centaurs deg. deg.143
In the upper glens
Of Pelion, deg. in the streams, deg.145
Where red-berried ashes fringe
The clear-brown shallow pools,
With streaming flanks, and heads
Rear’d proudly, snuffing
The mountain wind. 150

They see the Indian
Drifting, knife in hand,
His frail boat moor’d to
A floating isle thick-matted
With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants, 155
And the dark cucumber. 
He reaps, and stows them,
Drifting—­drifting;—­round him,
Round his green harvest-plot,
Flow the cool lake-waves, 160
The mountains ring them. deg.

They see the Scythian
On the wide stepp, unharnessing
His wheel’d house at noon. 
He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal—­ 165
Mares’ milk, and bread
Baked on the embers deg.;—­all around deg.167
The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr’d
With saffron and the yellow hollyhock
And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 170
Sitting in his cart,
He makes his meal; before him, for long miles,
Alive with bright green lizards,
And the springing bustard-fowl,
The track, a straight black line, 175
Furrows the rich soil; here and there
Clusters of lonely mounds
Topp’d with rough-hewn,
Grey, rain-blear’d statues, overpeer
The sunny waste. deg. deg.180

They see the ferry
On the broad, clay-laden. 
Lone Chorasmian stream deg.;—­thereon, deg.183
With snort and strain,
Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 185
The ferry-boat, with woven ropes
To either bow
Firm harness’d by the mane; a chief,
With shout and shaken spear,
Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern 190
The cowering merchants, in long robes,
Sit pale beside their wealth
Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops,
Of gold and ivory,
Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 195
Jasper and chalcedony,
And milk-barr’d onyx-stones. deg. deg.197
The loaded boat swings groaning