Classic Poem

The Indian hunter by the Eastern mead,
When pale he flies on his Hyrcanian steed,
Sees not as many tigers as have come
To-day, great Sire, to give delight to Rome.
Your games outshine those victory spoils of yore
That Bacchus once from Erythraea bore:
For when dark India to his car did bow,
A pair of tigers were for him enow.