This is the face of him, whose quick resource Of eye and hand subdued Bucephalus, And made the shadow of a startled horse A foreground for his glory. It is thus They hand him down; this coin of Philip's son Recalls his life, his glories and misdeeds, And that abortive court of Babylon, Where the world's throne was left among the reeds. His dust is lost among the ancient dead, A coin his only presence: he is gone: And all but this half mythic image fled -- A simple child may do him shame and slight; 'Twixt thumb and finger take the golden head, And spin the horns of Ammon out of sight. |