Vii

Glittering stands the giant royal, Four tall sons are at his back; Twain, with their own corpses loyal, Bridged the flames Pelusiac.

As he passeth, myriads bless him, Glorious Monarch all confess him, Sternly upright, to condone No injustice, save his own.

He, well-pleased, his sceptre swingeth, While his four sons strike the gong; Till the sparkling water ringeth Joy and laughter, joke and song.