To Corduba.

My Corduba—with wild, dishevell’d hair, 1
Pour forth lamentings—let thy drooping
And tear-soil’d face exhibit a despair, 3
As if, in sooth, thy banish’d son were dead.4
I know thy grief, methinks I see it all ; 5
Not louder could thy voice of anguish swell6
When fated Cæsar girt thy trembling wall, 7
And Pompey shook thy ramparts ere he
fell ;
Not on that night for slaughter’s work too
When death exulted, hand in hand with fate ; 10
Not when that Lusitanian robber chief11
Hurl’d his ignoble jav’lin at thy gate.12
He, that was once thy pride, thy stay—alas ! 13
In exile on a barren-rock must lie ; 14
Chain’d as of yore the wretch Prometheus
And bound, like him, to live and not to die.16
Oh ! Corduba—far in the lovely west, 17
Fast by the ocean-strand of pleasant Spain, 18
Be thankful — ; distant, thow art still at rest19
Nor hear’st of storms—save those upon the main.20