Classic Poem

TYRE'S ruined walls are but as shards or sand;
Fallen the soaring tower, the stately fane,
And yet through all the lovely autumn land
The Tyrian dyes remain.

So, seeing how the aster-purples gleam,
And the wild sunflower flaunts its golden fire,
Transported on the magic wings of dream,
The mind goes back to Tyre;

Back to the bales high-heaped upon the quays,
Rich-colored fabrics for the far-off shores;
Back to the deep, full-freighted argosies,
With their tall banks of oars;

Back to the looms, and to the maids and men
Who wrought thereon for the wide world's desire;
Back to the splendor so long vanished when
Hiram was king of Tyre!

From the watch-tower upon the parapet
No warder calls now at the midnight's wane,
For all is dearth and desolation, yet
The Tyrian dyes remain.