Pounded by batteries of ev’ry sort,
The walls already are a pile of dust.
No hope to hold longer the great World-fort.
Futurity has ceased to be for Earth
As in her prime of jollity and mirth.
She is worn out, and weak with motherhood;
No more, as once, has vigour to give birth
To all kinds of being, race after race,
Creatures monstrous in size, perfect in grace;
All her own make; by no gold cord let down