The Burden of Tyre

O island city, throning high
Beside the gate of many seas,
Your tribute comes on every breeze
From lands beyond the circled sky.

It comes in many a galleon
Whose rowers toil on ivory seats,
While blue and purple broidered sheets
Curve out from masts of Lebanon.

For you the Persians bend the bow,
The Gammadim uplift the spear,
The helms of Lybia sparkle clear,
The shields of Lud and Arvad glow.

Your markets echo back the fume
Of merchants come from many a land
Beyond the wilderness of sand,
Beyond the wilderness of spume.

Your stalls abound in precious wares:
Judea's olives, balm and grain;
The robes that Syrian maidens stain;
The gleaming ore that Tarshish bears;

The wool of Kedar's sable tents;
Togarmah's steeds and Javan's swords;
The bars of Ophir's aureate hoards;
The spice of Sheba and the scents.

The merchants of a hundred isles
Have made you perfect, full of grace;
The earth is dazed before your face,
The sea entangled by your wiles.

"But you shall perish," saith the Lord;
"Your glories wither like to flowers:—
Behold I bring against your towers
The King of Kings, the orient horde.

"The king of Babylon shall raise
His mound against your high estate;
His cars shall clash beneath your gate,
His horsemen slay along your ways.

"The isles shall tremble at your fall,
Your sailors stand afar and cry,
And fishers spread their nets to dry
Where beetled once your lordly wall."