Your glorious city is the utmost flower
Of a one-sided culture, that will spend
Itself upon itself, 'till, hour by hour,
It runs its sources dry, and so must end.
That race is doomed, behind whose lattices
Its once free women are constrained to peer
Upon the world of men with vacant eyes;
It was not so in Homer's time, I hear.
But Eastern slaves have eaten of your store,
Till in your homes all eating bread are slaves;