MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.
[Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage; when an officer, sent by the Roman Governor of Africa, came, and thus addressed him—"Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you, that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy." Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length, the officer inquired what answer he should carry to the Governor? "Go and tell him," said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, "that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage."]See Plutarch.
'Twas noon—and Afric's dazzling sun on high,
With fierce resplendence fill'd th' unclouded sky;
No zephyr wav'd the palm's majestic head,
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread;
While, desolate, beneath a blaze of light,
Silent and lonely, as at dead of night,
The wreck of Carthage lay—her prostrate Fanes
Had strew'd their precious marble o'er the plains;
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown,
The lizard bask’d upon the altar-stone;
'Whelm'd by the ruins of their own abodes
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods;
While near—dread offspring of the burning day—
Coil'd, 'midst forsaken halls, the serpent lay.
There came an exile, long by fate pursued,
To shelter in that awful solitude.
Well did that wanderer's high, yet faded mien,
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene:
Shadow’d, not veil'd, by locks of wintry snow,
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow'd brow;
Time had not quench'd the terrors of his eye,
Nor tam'd his glance of fierce ascendancy;
While the deep meaning of his features told, )
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit roll'd, >
Nor dim'd the fire that might not be controll'd;)
And still did power invest his stately form,
Shatter'd, but yet unconquer'd, by the storm.
But slow his step—and where, not yet o'erthrown,
Still tower'd a pillar, 'midst the waste alone;
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.
He slept—and darkly, on his brief repose,
Th’ indignant genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim, unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head—
Crownless, but regal still—With stern disdain,
