 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
94
ZENOBIA.
Palmyra,—widow'd city of the dead,How mournfully thy marshall'd columns stand
Grey sentinels above that desert sand
Where once thy patriot multitudes were spread
In serried ranks around Zenobia's car,
Hurling defiance at despotic Rome,
When country's love inspired the righteous war
For temples, Lares, liberties, and home,
Yea, to the death: Palmyra, thy last boast
Was this undaunted queen, the chaste, the fair,
Wise to decide, and resolute to dare,
Sage among sages, heroine in the host:
Hide not the fetters, as thou walkest there,
Liberty's martyr, those become thee most.
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