While at thy feet unrolled,
Lay Shinar’s plain, in whose bright midst there shone
The hundred gates of mighty Babylon—
Her towers and domes of gold!
Where are her glories now—
Her valiant kings—and he who reared yon tower
To brave the heavens? Spent is their little hour!
Oh, tree! why lingerest thou?
There thou hast stood and seen
Their doom fulfilled—hast seen gray ruin sit