The Scandinavian, the grave, turbaned Turk,
The Greek mercurial, even the hermit-sons
Of sage Confucius, like the sea-bird, spread
Fleet pinions toward this city of the west,
That like a money-changer for the earth
Sits ’neath her temple-dome.
Yon ocean-gate,
With telegraphic touch, doth chronicle
The rushing tide of sea-worn emigrants,
Who reach the land that gives the stranger bread,