Francesco Maria de Conti.
THE SHORE OF AFRICA.
Pilgrim! whose steps those desert sands explore,
Where verdure never spreads its bright array;
Know, ’twas on this inhospitable shore
From Pompey’s heart the life-blood ebb’d away.
Twas here betray’d he fell, neglected lay;
Nor found his relics a sepulchral stone,
Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day,
O’er Tiber’s wave supreme in glory shone!
Thou, stranger! if from barbarous climes thy birth,
Look round exultingly, and bless the earth
Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die;
But if ’tis Roman blood that fills thy veins,
Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains,
And bathe with tears the grave of liberty.