Poems (Hornblower)/The Fate of a City
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THE FATE OF A CITY.
When time's cold scythe has swept away
The pride of all this busy town,
And, yielding to its mighty sway,
Its buildings sink in ruin down;
Its streets forsook, its temples bare,
Upon its quays the wild-bird lone,
And, where its thousands rent the air,
A stranger sitting on a stone;—
The pride of all this busy town,
And, yielding to its mighty sway,
Its buildings sink in ruin down;
Its streets forsook, its temples bare,
Upon its quays the wild-bird lone,
And, where its thousands rent the air,
A stranger sitting on a stone;—
As, gazing on those ruins wild,
He muses on its former state,
Its loaded marts, so closely piled,
Its wide-spread commerce, and its fate;—
Ah! human glory!doth he sigh,
How short thy date, how swift thy doom!
A few brief centuries hasten by,
The busy town becomes a tomb!
He muses on its former state,
Its loaded marts, so closely piled,
Its wide-spread commerce, and its fate;—
Ah! human glory!doth he sigh,
How short thy date, how swift thy doom!
A few brief centuries hasten by,
The busy town becomes a tomb!
And what survives?—its gold is dust—
Its proud ones ashes—is there nought,
No memory of the pure and just,
No trace of all their hand has wrought,
To live to future age? There came
A voice from the surrounding earth,
Which cried—"There yet survives one name!—
A noble spirit here had birth!"
Its proud ones ashes—is there nought,
No memory of the pure and just,
No trace of all their hand has wrought,
To live to future age? There came
A voice from the surrounding earth,
Which cried—"There yet survives one name!—
A noble spirit here had birth!"