Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/66

 Proud cities deluging; Pompeian tow'rs, And Herculanean, and what riotous stood In Syrian valley, where now the Dead Sea 'Mong solitary hills infectious lies. See the swift Furies, famine, plague, and war, In frequent thunders rage o'er neighb'ring realms, And spread their plains with desolation wide! Yet your mild homesteads ever-blooming smile Among embracing woods, and waft on high The breath of plenty, from the ruddy tops Of chimneys curling o'er the gloomy trees In airy azure ringlets to the sky. Nor ye by need are urg'd, as Attic swains, And Tarentine, with skins to clothe your sheep, Expensive toil, howe'er expedient found In fervid climates, while from Phœbus' beams They fled to rugged woods and tangling brakes. But those expensive toils are now no more, Proud Tyranny devours their flocks and herds: Nor bleat of sheep may now, nor sound of pipe, Sooth the sad plains of once sweet Arcady, The shepherds' kingdom: dreary solitude Spreads o'er Hymettus, and the shaggy vale Of Athens, which in solemn silence sheds Her venerable ruins to the dust. The weary Arabs roam from plain to plain, Guiding the languid herd in quest of food, And shift their little home's uncertain scene With frequent farewell; strangers, pilgrims all, As were their fathers. No sweet fall of rain May there be heard; nor sweeter liquid lapse Of river, o'er the pebbles gliding by In murmurs: goaded by the rage of thirst, Daily they journey to the distant clefts Of craggy rocks, where gloomy palms o'erhang