Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/294



O my poor land laid waste with flame and fire!

O ruined city overthrown by fate!

Ah, what availed the offerings of my Sire

To keep the foreign foemen from the gate!

Ah, what availed the herds of pasturing kine

To save my country from the wrath divine!

Ah, neither prayer nor priest availèd aught,

Nor the strong captains that so stoutly fought,

For the tall town lies desolate and low.

And I, the singer of this song of woe,

Know, by the fire burning in my brain,

That Death, the healer of all earthly pain,

Is close at hand! I will not shirk the blow. 280