While in your lightly veering course

A seraph seems to take his flight,

The swervings of your snowy horse,

Volted with valour and delight,

In thundering orbit wheel the Ring

Which Apis pivots with his pain

And of whose realm, with royal stain,

His agony anoints you king.

His horns the moon, his hue the night,

The dying embers of his sight

Across their bloody film may view

The star of morning rise in fire,

Projectile of the same desire

Whose pride is animate in you.