There for a resting-place the traveller stays,
For shade and for repose: the gate now gain'd,
Awhile the vacillating foot delays
To enter, as if fearing it profaned
Too bold the mansions of the dead. No word,
No sound, no murmur. It would seem that there
Ev'n Echo's self is mute, no answer heard!
Slowly I through the narrow streets repair
Without a human footstep! Porticos
And plazas by no living beings trod,
Walls with deserted hearths, and temples rose
And altars, without victims or a god.
How little, mean and miserable seem'd
The world before mine eyes, when there I stood!
A bitter smile upon my features gleam'd,
To think of man's ambition, schemes of blood,
And projects without end, when by a blast,
Like smoke, their good and evil are represt;
Ashes a mighty city overcast,
As light dust covers o'er some poor ants' nest!
Thus wrapp'd in mournful thoughts, I paced along
That vast and silent precinct, as behind
Roves some unbodied shade the tombs among;
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FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA.
