By the waves where tempests brew,
Ano'er life long ago had been slew,
The salty dew whence other times knew,
A favour'd one led all but a few.
Along the far reaching coastline sail'd,
Didst thou not find an artful gale,
The storms didst rise so forcefully yet,
To Neptune didst thee pay little thy debt!
Finding fault in all the land,
Where Greeks had trail'd on through the sand,
Nor wouldst thou hath been safe in the city,
Of eternal Rome if not for Dido's frail pity.
The Empúrdian valley a glint from the sea,
Wandering first comers, they were to be,
Settl'd in that place, a colony so distant,
The land of Hispania, nam'd on from that instant.
On through the gates 'though they be hardly,
Of Scion size yet still of grandure perhaps partly,
Columns were lined half ruin'd or reclin'd
Cast back to the mists whose times refuse to decide.
Asklepios! Whether 'tis thee truly,
In thy moment of dearest need -left so unruly,
Couldst thou not have work'd thy wonders?
Upon one who ne’er seem'd to hath gone under?
Up towards the Agora's wide open space,
Where bartering once held sway -'twas the place,
Many a merchant man found his reward,
Left only in final days, with needs must to hoard.
'Twas told once in those of antique time,
Thereabouts a port didst rise above the brine,
Which rival'd e'en thee Gades in thy decline,
The adopted son didst think "Iberia! Now thou art mine!"