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Strange that to power no state or people grew,
From age to age their glory to renew;
But like the sun they gain meridian height,
Blaze their appointed time, then sink in night;

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And so Tyre fell,

her riches could not save; The city of the proud is now a grave, Swept, like her daughter Carthage, by the wings of ages, from the list of living things. And so Tyre fell, where rose her granite towers, And shone her palaced streets, and jewelled bowers, The goatherd heedless roves, nor asks her name, Nor recks her glories past and ancient fame. He sees bowed arch, an aqueduct, and well, But who their builders were he cannot tell. The wave, unsympathizing, beats the strand, Moss clothes black fragments buried deep in sand, And sea-birds, stooping in their ocean flight, Pass with wild shrieks the vanished city's site.

Nicholas Michell.

TYRE.

did thy ships to earth’s wide bounds proceed,

In that thy day of glory. Carthage rose,
Thy daughter, and the rival of thy fame,
Upon the sands of Lybia; princes were
Thy merchants ; on thy golden throne thy state
Shone, like the orient sun. Dark Lebanon
Waved all his pines for thee; for thee the oaks
Of Bashan towered in strength: thy galleys cut,

Glittering, the sunny surge; thy mariners,
On ivory benches, furled the embroidered sails,
That looms of Egypt wove, or to the oars,
That measuring dipped, their choral sea-songs sung;
The multitude of isles did shout for thee,
And cast their emeralds at thy feet, and said,
Queen of the Waters, who is like to thee!

So wert thou glorious on the seas, and saidst,
I am a god, and there is none like me.
But the dread voice prophetic is gone forth :
Howl, for the whirlwind of the desert comes !
Howl ye again, for Tyre, her multitude
Of sins and dark abominations cry
Against her, saith the Lord; in the mid seas
Her beauty shall be broken ; I will bring
Her pride to ashes; she shall be no more;
The distant isles shall tremble at the sound
When thou dost fall; the princes of the sea
Shall from their thrones come down, and cast away
Their gorgeous robes; for thee they shall take up
A bitter lamentation, and shall say,
How art thou fallen, renowned city! thou,
Who wert enthroned glorious on the scas,
To rise no more!

William Lisle Bowles.

TYRE.

THE
HE wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire ;
The thundering surf of ocean beats on the rocks

of Tyre, Beats on the fallen columns and round the headland

roars,

And hurls its foamy volume along the hollow shores, And calls with hungry clamor, that speaks its long

desire : “Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships

of Tyre?"

Within her cunning harbor, choked with invading sand, No galleys bring their freightage, the spoils of every

land, And like a prostrate forest, when autumn gales have

blown, Her colonnades of granite lie shattered and o’erthrown; And from the reef the pharos no longer flings its fire, To beacon home from Tarshish the lordly ships of

Tyre.

Where is thy rod of empire, once mighty on the

waves, Thou that thyself cxaltedst, till kings became thy slaves ? Thou that didst speak to nations, and saw thy will

obeyed, Whose favor made them joyful, whose anger sore

afraid, Who laid'st thy deep foundations, and thought them

strong and sure, And boasted midst the waters, Shall I not aye endure ?

Where is the wealth of ages that heaped thy princely

mart? The pomp of purple trappings; the gems of Syrian

art;

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