SYRACUSE.
In brighter days the Dorian Muse
Extol’d the kings of Syracuse.
Hieros and Gelons shook the rein
Of coursers on the Olympic plain,
Victors at Elis, where they won
A crown no king can leave his son.
There Pindar struck his harp aloud,
And shared the applauses of the crowd.
Then Science from deep study rais’d
A greater man than bards have prais’d.
When Syracuse met Roman foes,
Above her proudest he arose;
He called from heaven the Lord of Light
To lend him his all-piercing might.
The patriot’s pious prayer was heard,
And vaunting navies disappeared;
Through clouds of smoke sparks widely flew,
And hissing rafts the shore bestrew;
Some on the Punic sands were cast,
And Carthage was avenged at last.
Alas! how fallen art thou since,
O Syracuse! how many a prince
Of Gallia’s parti-colour’d brood
Have crept o’er thee to suck thy blood!
Syracuse, raise again thy head,
Long hast thou slept, but art not dead.
A late avenger now is come
Whose voice alone can split the tomb.
Hearest thou not the world throughout
Cry Garibaldi? One loud shout
Arises, and there needs but one
To shatter a polluted throne.