Ix

He, whose kingdom-city stretches Further than our eyesight fetches; Every street it wanders down Larger than a regal town;

Built, when each man was a giant, When the rocks were mason's stones, When the oaks were osiers pliant, And the mountains scarcely thrones;

City, whose Titanic portals Scorn the puny modern mortals, In thy desert winding-sheet, Sacred from our insect feet.