(Written in her sixteenth year.)

Palmyra, where art thou, all dreary and lone?
The breath of thy fame, like the night-wind, hath flown;
O'er thy temples, thy minarets, towers and halls
The dark veil of oblivion silently falls.

The sands of the desert sweep by thee in pride,
They curl round thy brow, like the foam of the tide,
And soon, like the mountain stream's wild-rolling wave,
Will rush o'er, and wrap thee at once in thy grave.

Oh, where are the footsteps which once gaily flew
O'er pavements, where now weep the foxglove and yew?
Oh where are the voices which once gaily sung,
While the lofty-brow'd domes with melody rung?

They are silent; — and naught breaks the chaos of death;
Not a being now treads o'er the ivy's dull wreath,
Save the raging hyena, whose terrible cry
Echoes loud thro' the halls and the palaces high.

Thou art fallen, Palmyra! and never to rise,
Thou 'queen of the east, thou bright child of the skies!'
Thou art lonely; the desert around thee is wide,
Then haste to its arms, nor remember thy pride.

Thou'rt forgotten, Palmyra! return thee to earth;
And great be thy fall, as was stately thy birth;
With grandeur then bow 'neath the pinion of time,
And sink, not in splendour, but sadly sublime.