Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/27

 Thou hast not followed that immortal Star

Which leads the people forth to deeds of war.

Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep,

As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep,

Careless of all the hurrying hours that run,

Mourning some day of glory, for the sun

Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face,

And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.

Yet wake not from thy slumbers,—rest thee well,

Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel,

Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,—rest thee there,

To mock all human greatness: who would dare

To vent the paltry sorrows of his life

Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife

Of kings' ambition, and the barren pride

Of warring nations! wert not thou the Bride

Of the wild Lord of Adria's stormy sea!

The Queen of double Empires! and to thee

Were not the nations given as thy prey!

And now—thy gates lie open night and day,

The grass grows green on every tower and hall,

The ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall;

And where thy mailèd warriors stood at rest

The midnight owl hath made her secret nest.

O fallen! fallen! from thy high estate,

O city trammelled in the toils of Fate, 13