The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 40, Pages 445-446
V.
Francesco Maria de Conti.
O Peregrin, die muovi errante il passo, &c.
The Shore of Africa.
Pilgrim! whose steps these desert sands explore,
Where verdure never spread its bright array,
Know 'twas on this inhospitable shore
From Pompey's heart the life-blood ebbed away.
'Twas here, betrayed, 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!
