XXXV.

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance; The little warriors doff the targe and spear, And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance; To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze; Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance Rapid along: with many-colour'd rays Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.