This ring, of course, takes your eye,-- A splendid great scarab of green. Imagine how Pharaoh went by, And this on his finger was seen! Singing girls going before, Lifting their paeans of praise; Suppliants bowed to the floor, Proclaiming his greatness of days; Fan-bearers following after, With clash of the cymbals and drums; Incense that floats to the rafter; The cry of the flutes where he comes; Priests in their purple and scarlet, Dancers in brassiers of gold, The merchant, the scribe, and the harlot, The soothsayers shaven and old; All these are now dust of the East,-- Their vanity, power, and pride Gone with the flowers of their feast, Past with their music that died. And still this symbol remains A treasure the ages hold fast,-- Sign that the spirit attains Its mystic perfection at last. . . . . . . . . Guarding the emblem they hold, How freshly these irises blend, Wrought in a setting of gold Designed by George Marcus, my friend!