ajaxian

fair salamis, the billows’ roar,
wander around thee yet,
and sailors gaze upon thy shore
firm in the ocean set.
thy son is in a foreign clime
where ida feeds her countless flocks,
far from thy dear, remembered rocks,
worn by the waste of time–
comfortless, nameless, hopeless save
in the dark prospect of the yawning grave....
woe to the mother in her close of day,
woe to her desolate heart and temples gray,
when she shall hear
her loved one’s story whispered in her ear!
“woe, woe!’ will be the cry–
no quiet murmur like the tremulous wail
of the lone bird, the querulous nightingale–