Hushed now awhile, for early morning smiles
O’er the swift river, and the grey, yet grand
Wide-winged old city of Titanic piles,
Huge capital of our little, lordliest of all isles.
She looks a sprawling Mammoth from the river
Risen, with unspanned bulk and ungauged powers,
O’er league on league the silver morn-mists quiver
Upon her mighty maze of roofs and towers.
And what brings she, what are her dearest dowers
To wealth-spoilt golden youth? The Comus feast,