Classic Poem

On a front bench to let the world admire
He sits; his jewelled fingers flash and glow,
Deeply his cloak has drunk the dyes of Tyre,
His robe is whiter than the virgin snow.

His locks diffuse their perfume all around,
White are his glittering arms without an hair,
New sandals daily on his feet are bound,
And softest hide is all that he can bear.

The crescent on his scarlet boot is seen,
His patch-bespangled brow bears many a star;
Dost know the creature? Strip his forehead clean,
The brands thereon tell what his titles are.