Classic Poem

Sometimes I sauntered from my lone abode
Down to the palace of the town waiwode.
Methinks I see him on his rich divan,
In crimson clad, a proud and lordly man.
An amber-headed pipe of costly wood
Adorned his hand: around kawasses stood.
A sable beard his gravity bespoke,
His measured words the silence rarely broke.
Beside him sat a boy of gentle mien,
In rich attire, in age about fifteen.
His red tarbush o'ertopped his jet black hair,
His cheeks were comely and his skin was fair.
His faultless form, in Grecian garments cloaked,
Thoughts more than mere benevolence provoked.
Not Ganymede, whose all bewitching shape,
Could in Olympus sanctify a rape.
Not Ali, long the Moslem prophet's joy,
Bloomed with such graces as this Grecian boy.
Waiwode, this stripling was thy catamite,
And if by grave examples men do right
To mould their lives, say, Was my conduct weak?
Was it a crime to imitate him? Speak.
Full well I know the answer; thou would'st cry
Shun, shun the monster, from his presence fly.
Alas, my friend, and whither should I go?
The self same usage reigns with high and low.