A murky air, where sunshine never smiles,
As black as Bradford. This was once the land
Where poets sang its countless marble piles,
And Ruskin wrote and revelled in its sunny isles!
In Venice Ruskin’s echoes are no more,
And steam has stopped the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crammed with goods galore,
And barcarolles no longer meet the ear;
Those days are past—but Enterprise is here.
Shares fall, Stocks fade, but Commerce doth not die