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Her thronging roofs, and busy streets,
Where wealth, with active labour meets;
Her distant groves, her lofty domes,
Her holy spires, and cottage homes.
And then, beyond, a distant scene
Of cultur'd vales, extending far,
All clad in Autumn's latest green,
And shelter'd from the storm of war.
And lo, upon the western sky,
What glowing scenes attract the eye,
Where wildly spreads in bright array
The pageantry of closing day;
Whose azure eye with frequent glance
Looks gaily through the wide expanse,
To greet the clouds that throng to pay
Their homage to her gentle sway.
For though no sounding herald calls
To warn them from their airy halls,
Yet still they summon all their pow'r.
To cheer and gild the festive hour.
Some rob'd in white with snowy breast,
Look from the windows of the west,
And some, to join the mystic dance,
With fair and glowing brow, advance;
Float sparkling on, retire, or roam,
Like trembling lamp on Ocean's foam;
While mingling in their sportive race,
And flitting light from place to place.
