Of her true, real, dismal state—
Her mansions, foul and desolate,—
Her close canals, exhaling wide
Such fetid airs as—with those domes
Of silent grandeur, by their side,
Where step of life ne'er goes or comes,
And those black barges plying round
With melancholy, plashing sound,—
Seem like a city, where the Pest
Is holding her last visitation,