William Talbot Allison (1874–1941)

A FAIR-HAIRED slave of Sidon, what to him

Her dream of empire and her fame?

Chained to the trireme’s oar, defiant, grim,

He cries his curses on her name.

And what to him her purple pride, her quest

For new dominions, unknown seas,

And all the untouched wonders of the west,

And apples of Hesperides?

Dull his poor eyes to pomp, and dead to dreams

His withered heart; his Dacian home

All but forgot; faint and far-off the screams

Of his young brood destroyed by Rome.

How can his sullen eyes see past the oar

That holds him to his daily death?

Can Sidon’s prayers for her great quest be more

To this dull slave than idle breath?

To him the cheers, the tumult on the quay,

Are hollow echoes on the wind;

The chiefs of Sidon seek the outer sea,

Fame lures them far, and Fate is blind.

*****

But Sidon’s hopes were doomed, and fickle Fate

Denied the splendid galley’s quest;

Fate heard the slave’s prayer daily hissed in hate,—

His quest was death, his hope was rest.