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.

Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.