In the ever-changing cycle;
Bear, ye echoes, to our patriots,
Waft, ye breezes, our sad parting.
CANTO IX.
1847-1861.
PROGRESS.
Now we come to architecture,
In the annals of the city;
Now the spirit of improvement
Makes a giant-stride among us,
Opens wide her money-coffers,
In the growing, hillside city.