Carmen Saeculare

O melancholy ruin, that wert Greece ! What little comfort canst thou take from time ? Years pass, in shameful war or sordid peace— What god can recreate thee, the sublime ? Alas ! let Lethe roll her sleepy seas Over thy ruined clime. O piteous fallen tyranny of Spain ! What dogs are tearing at thy bowels yet ? Let thine own King, saith God, resume his reign ! Loyal and happy seasons may forget The ancient scars. Thy moon is on the wane ? Thy sun may never set ! And thou, foul oligarchy of the West, Thou, soiled with bribes and stained with treason’s stain, Thou, heart of coin beneath a brazen breast, Rotten republic, prostitute of gain ! Thou, murderer of the bravest and the best That fringed thy southern main ! The doom is spoken. Thine own children tear Thy cruel heart and thy corrupted tongue ; Thy toilers snare thee in thine own foul snare, And sting thee where thy gilded worms had stung. The politician and the millionaire Regain maternal dung. 14