And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.

Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."

Nature's old felicities.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

A power is passing from the earth.