In whose strong breast beat half a million hearts,
Instinct with hurrying life. The gray-haired sires
Remember well, how the dank waters crept
Where now, in queenly pomp, her court she holds.
Next gleams that Isle, whose long-drawn line of coast
Is loved by Ceres. On its western heights
Towereth a busy mart, and ’neath its wing,
One, whose pure domes are wrapped in sacred shade,
Silent, yet populous. Through its still gates
Pass on the unreturning denizens.