WHERE are thy splendors, Dorian Corinth? Where Thy crested turrets, thy ancestral goods, The temple of the blest, the dwellings of the fair, The high-born dames, the myriad multitudes? There's not a trace of thee, sad doomed one, left; By ravening war at once of all bereft. We, the sad nereids, offspring of the surge, Alone are spared to chant the halcyon's dirge. |