_Dom._ All lost but one poor sail That brings the desperate news. The tyrant mad With this is bound for flight with what is left Of Carthage. _Speu._ Ah, Ocrastes dead? _Dom._ Drowned, sir. _Speu._ And Dion's wife? _Dom._ She's in the castle--safe. _Speu._ And flies with Dionysius? Speak, man! _Dom._ She begs to stay, but he may force her off. _Speu._ Then we must stop this play and take the castle! Drag off! You're past all harm. [_Going off, left_] Now one charge more! [_Exit_] [_Light breaks over Lesser Harbor_] _Voices._ Light! light! _First man._ O blessed Zeus! And yet I fear The babe-eyed Dawn will sicken with what's here And creep back into night. _Second man._ No, day comes on,-- The red-capped nurse that in her bosom hides The cherub Dawn, while her broad smile Goes round the world. _Third man._ A smile on this? _Second man._ Ay, ay, Her stomach's for all sights, and ulcerous earth She'll kiss as close as fountain-laughing vales. _First man._ By Ares' bloody dame, here's work enough To keep the gods a year from holiday! [_Shouts without, left. Enter citizens and soldiers in joyful confusion_] _Voices._ 'Tis down! The wall is down! The castle's taken! _A voice._ The tyrant has fled by sea! _Another._ And none too soon! _Another._ He'd pay his head else! _Cries without._ Dion! Dion! Dion! [_Enter Dion with friends and citizens_] _Dion._ Shout not my name, for 'twas the noble stranger Who won this night. Seek him, Calippus,--beg His presence here with brow unhelmeted, That we may look where valor hath her home. _Cal._ He's gone, my lord. _Dion._ Gone? _Cal._ Vanished, as the sea Had lapped him up. _Dion._ More like the gods have stooped To draw him home again. [_Looks about at the desolation and groans_] _Cal._ Your wound, my lord? _Dion._ No, no. I weep for dying Syracuse. Now is her glory like a weary star Withdrawn from fortune's heaven. O fairest city, Whose beauty drew the feet of farthest kings, And set a value in the poorest eye To be a storied heritage to sons When sires who saw had passed! Even thou hast won From cold oblivion but an ashen cloak! _Aris._ 'Tis tyranny lies here, not Syracuse. Ay, from these mourn�d ashes, friend, will spring A brighter glory than they bury now, And this night's woe bear fruitage of a peace When Time shall hang as thick with happy hours As Flora's breast with buds.