These Are Thy Glorious Works, Parent Of

Tower'd Cities Please Us Then, And The Busy Hum Of Men.

The Oracles Are Dumb, No Voice Or Hideous Hum Runs Thro' The Arched Roof In Words Deceiving.

Ladies, Whose Bright Eyes Rain Influence, And Judge The Prize.

But Oh The Heavy Change, Now Thou Art Gone, Now Thou Art Gone And Never Must Return!

That Power Which Erring Men Call Chance.