Let Carnage revel e'en her shrines among!
Spare not the valiant! pity not the young!
Haste! o'er her hills the sword’s libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!"
The vision flies—a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear:
He starts, he wakes to woe—before him stands
Th' unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose falt'ring accents bid the exil'd chief
Seek, far on other shores, a home for grief.
Silent the wanderer sat—but on his cheek
The burning glow, far more than words might speak;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Language, where all th’ indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice—then, calmly stern,
And sov’reign in despair, he cried, "Return!
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen
Marius the Exile rest where Carthage once hath been!"
