The sun sets brightly--but a ruddier glow O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw. Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire In lurid splendour from her domes aspire; Sway’d by the wind, they wave--while glares the sky As when the desert’s red simoom is nigh; The sculptured altar and the pillar’d hall Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall; Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams-- Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’d by its beams; While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes; And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, Swell from the victors’ tents with ivy crown’d.[124] --But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, All regal in magnificent attire, And sternly beauteous in terrific ire? She might be deem’d a Pythia in the hour Of dread communion and delirious power; A being more than earthly, in whose eye There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. The flames are gathering round--intensely bright, Full on her features glares their meteor light; But a wild courage sits triumphant there, The stormy grandeur of a proud despair; A daring spirit, in its woes elate, Mightier than death, untameable by fate. The dark profusion of her locks unbound Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round; Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien-- She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. Are those _her_ infants, that with suppliant cry Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh, Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, And fain would rush for shelter to her breast? Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain, And passion, awfully vindictive, reign?