The Tower of Famine
Amid the desolation of a city,Which was the cradle, and is now the graveOf an extinguished people,--so that Pity
Weeps o'er the shipwrecks of Oblivion's wave,There stands the Tower of Famine. It is builtUpon some prison-homes, whose dwellers rave
For bread, and gold, and blood: Pain, linked to Guilt,Agitates the light flame of their hours,Until its vital oil is spent or spilt.
There stands the pile, a tower amid the towersAnd sacred domes; each marble-ribbed roof,The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers
Of solitary wealth,--the tempest-proofPavilions of the dark Italian air,--Are by its presence dimmed--they stand aloof,
And are withdrawn--so that the world is bare;As if a spectre wrapped in shapeless terrorAmid a company of ladies fair
Should glide and glow, till it became a mirrorOf all their beauty, and their hair and hue,The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error,Should be absorbed, till they to marble grew.
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