Classic Poem

Two thousand years, e'er Stepney had a name,
In Carthage walls, I shar'd the punic fame;
There, to the strongest, added strength I lent,
And proudly propp'd the world's best ornament.
Now, to cold Britain , a torn transport, thrown,
I piece a church-yard pile , unmark'd, unknown:
Stain'd, and half sunk in dirt, my sculpture lies,
And moulders, like the graves , which round me rise.
Oh! think, blind mortals! what frail dust, you claim,
And laugh at wealth, wit, beauty, pow'r, and fame!
Short praise, can fleeting hopes, like yours, supply,
Since times, and tongues, and tow'rs, and empires die!