To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.