Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/56

42 Careless of all the hurrying hours that run, Mourning some day of glory, for the sun Of freedom hath not shown 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 warrior 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 mailéd 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, Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days, But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays!