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, unsympathising, beats the strand,
Moss clothes black fragments buried deep in sand,
And seabirds, stooping in their ocean flight,
Pass with wild shrieks the vanished city's site.