[_Written beneath a dilapidated tower, yet
standing among the ruins of Carthage._]
Thou mouldering pile, that hath withstood
The silent lapse of many ages,
The earthquake's shock, the storm, the flood,
Around whose base the ocean rages;
Who reared thy walls that proudly brave
The tempest, battle, and the wave?
Was it beneath thy ample dome
That Marius rested, and from thee,
When he had lost imperial Rome,
Learned high resolve and constancy?
Thou seem'st to mock the power of fate,
And well might'st teach the lesson great.
Perhaps thy vaulted arch hath rung
Of yore, with laughter's merry shout,
While beauty round her glances flung
To cheer some monarch's wassail rout;
But mirth and beauty long have fled
From this lone City of the Dead.
Where busy thousands oft have trod
Beneath thy mouldering marble brow,
Wild moss-grown fragments press the sod,
Around thee all is silence now.
And thus the breath of foul decay
Shall melt at last thy form away.
Thou desolate, deserted pile,
Lone vestage of departed glory,
Sadly in ruin thou seem'st to smile,
While baffled time flies frowning o'er thee,
As if resolved the tale to tell
Where Carthage stood, and how it fell.
Midst ruined walls thou stand'st alone,
Around thee strewn may yet be seen
The broken column, sculptured stone,
And relics sad of what hath been.
But thou alone survivest the fall,
Defying Time, dread leveller of all.