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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
TWO cities moulder here—and can it be, | |
| Seleucia! Ctesiphon! we gaze on ye? | |
| Boast of the Greek, and pride of Parthia’s kings, | |
| How has your glory flown on eagle wings! | |
| The thrones of ivory, and the myrtle bowers, | 5 |
| The harems, full of Beauty’s choicest flowers, | |
| The burning censers of the Magian train, | |
| The bright-plumed hosts careering on the plain,— | |
| Where are they now? The lowly turf I tread, | |
| On which the daisy lifts its yellow head, | 10 |
| Veils the past scene of splendor,—Genii, come! | |
| From cave and dell, your green and haunted home, | |
| Shed memory’s tear, put wreaths of cypress on, | |
| And mourn Seleucia! weep for Ctesiphon! | |
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| By ruin struck, and yet unbowed by years, | 15 |
| One noble relic on this waste appears: | |
| See! where yon lofty-raised stupendous wall | |
| Nods o’er the desert mounds, but will not fall; | |
| Beneath the mighty arch we wander slow, | |
| On sand-heaped floors the thorn and thistle grow. | 20 |
| And here dwelt Khosru, Persia’s tasteful king, | |
| Lapped in each joy that power and splendor bring; | |
| Here blazed that throne, all formed of pearls and gold, | |
| Like sunset cloud round Mythra’s chariot rolled; | |
| Here Indian slaves knelt down in glittering rows, | 25 |
| And Tyrian couches wooed to cool repose; | |
| Breathed from a thousand urns each choice perfume, | |
| Till fainting sweetness filled each dazzling room. | |
| Here Barbud’s hand the harp-strings swept along, | |
| Till all the trembling air seemed steeped with song. | 30 |
| The soul in dreams half thought her in the skies, | |
| Mistaking earth for star-bright Paradise. | |
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