The Tower of Famine

Amid the desolation of a city,

Which was the cradle, and is now the grave

Of an extinguished people,--so that Pity

Weeps o'er the shipwrecks of Oblivion's wave,

There stands the Tower of Famine. It is built

Upon 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 towers

And sacred domes; each marble-ribbed roof,

The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers

Of solitary wealth,--the tempest-proof

Pavilions 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And are withdrawn--so that the world is bare;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 terror

Amid a company of ladies fair

Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror

Of 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.