But the poet lit the darkness
With a gentle light,
Calling forth such beauty
As the morn from night
Calls to sweet and sudden birth.
Such lingers around Carthage,
The ocean’s earliest queen.
In y'on twilight grotto
Might the queen complain
Of the heart’s affection,
Given—and in vain.
As she mourned will many mourn.
Why is it the poet’s sorrow
Touches many a heart?
’Tis the general knowledge
Claiming each their part.
Still those numbers sound forlorn,
Mid the stones of stately Carthage,
The ocean’s earliest queen.
Empire still has followed
The revolving sun;
Earth’s great onward progress
In the East begun—
Ruins, deserts, now are there.
Downfall waits on triumph:
Is such fate in store
For our glorious islands?
Will our English shore
Lie as desolate and bare
As the shores of fallen Carthage,
The ocean’s former queen?
L. E. L.
45
