Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state;
While, pale with fear, men hurried far away,
Who in its ample shade had found so late
Their bower of rest; and nature’s savage race
Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place.
But thou, base Libya! thou whose arid sand
Hath been a kingdom’s deathbed, where one fate
Closed her bright life and her majestic fame,—
Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand
Hath fall’n the victory, be not thou elate!