 | Sonnets and Other Poems Chiefly Religious |  |
My own, my native Carthage! which I serve,
Unseen, though loved, these three and thirty years,
Through triumph and misfortune, toil and blood.
Home of my fathers, and my childhood's home!
Once more mine eyes behold thee, still unchanged;—
The rock-built towers that look upon the sea,
The forest of the masts that crowd the port;
And there the stern old temple where I laid
My hand upon the sacrifice, and vowed
Eternal hatred to the Roman name.
Have I not well fulfilled my early vow?
Have I not written deep my quenchless hate
In fire and blood, when desolation tracked
My path, and many a plain that bloomed before
Turned to a smoking wilderness behind;
And when the earth was drenched and waters dyed
With Roman blood, upon the battle-days
Of Trebia, Thrasymene, and Cannæ?
Unseen, though loved, these three and thirty years,
Through triumph and misfortune, toil and blood.
Home of my fathers, and my childhood's home!
Once more mine eyes behold thee, still unchanged;—
The rock-built towers that look upon the sea,
The forest of the masts that crowd the port;
And there the stern old temple where I laid
My hand upon the sacrifice, and vowed
Eternal hatred to the Roman name.
Have I not well fulfilled my early vow?
Have I not written deep my quenchless hate
In fire and blood, when desolation tracked
My path, and many a plain that bloomed before
Turned to a smoking wilderness behind;
And when the earth was drenched and waters dyed
With Roman blood, upon the battle-days
Of Trebia, Thrasymene, and Cannæ?
Yes,
And have I not remembered thee, my own,
My native Carthage? When Italian lands
Confessed my sway, and many a goodly town
Knelt to my power, my conquests were for thee.
Of thee I thought when Rome's best blood was poured,
A rich libation to thy guardian gods,
Sweeter than oldest wine. Of thee I thought
When my Numidian bloodhounds tracked the wolf
Even to his den, to Rome; and I rode on
And flung my spear into the startled street;
For then I deemed that Rome was won for thee.
And have I not remembered thee, my own,
My native Carthage? When Italian lands
Confessed my sway, and many a goodly town
78
Of thee I thought when Rome's best blood was poured,
A rich libation to thy guardian gods,
Sweeter than oldest wine. Of thee I thought
When my Numidian bloodhounds tracked the wolf
Even to his den, to Rome; and I rode on
And flung my spear into the startled street;
For then I deemed that Rome was won for thee.
| Sonnets and Other Poems Chiefly Religious | |