The City Of Sin
LO!
Death
hath
rear'd
himself
a
throne
In
a
strange
city,
all
alone,
Far
down
within
the
dim
west
—
Where
the
good,
and
the
bad,
and
the
worst,
and
the
best,
Have
gone
to
their
eternal
rest.
There
shrines,
and
palaces,
and
towers
Are
—
not
like
any
thing
of
ours
—
Oh
no!
—
O
no!
—
ours
never
loom
To
heaven
with
that
ungodly
gloom!
Time-eaten
towers
that
tremble
not!
Resemble
nothing
that
is
ours.
Around,
by
lifting
winds
forgot,
Resignedly
beneath
the
sky
The
melancholy
waters
lie.
No
holy
rays
from
heaven
come
down
On
the
long
night-time
of
that
town,
But
light
from
out
the
lurid
sea
Streams
up
the
turrets
silently
—
Up
thrones
—
up
long-forgotten
bowers
Of
scultur'd
ivy
and
stone
flowers
—
Up
domes
—
up
spires
—
up
kingly
halls
—
Up
fanes
—
up
Babylon-like
walls
—
Up
many
a
melancholy
shrine
Whose
entablatures
intertwine
The
mask
—
the
viol
—
and
the
vine.
There
open
temples
—
open
graves
Are
on
a
level
with
the
waves
—
But
not
the
riches
there
that
lie
In
each
idol's
diamond
eye,
Not
the
gaily-jewell'd
dead
Tempt
the
waters
from
their
bed:
For
no
ripples
curl,
alas!
Along
that
wilderness
of
glass
—
No
swellings
hint
that
winds
may
be
Upon
a
far-off
happier
sea:
So
blend
the
turrets
and
shadows
there
That
all
seem
pendulous
in
air,
While
from
the
high
towers
of
the
town
Death
looks
gigantically
down.
But
lo!
a
stir
is
in
the
air!
The
wave
—
there
is
a
ripple
there!
As
if
the
towers
had
thrown
aside,
In
slightly
sinking,
the
dull
tide
—
As
if
the
turret-tops
had
given
A
vacuum
in
the
filmy
heaven.
The
waves
have
now
a
redder
glow
—
The
very
hours
are
breathing
low
—
And
when,
amid
no
earthly
moans,
Down,
down,
that
town
shall
settle
hence,
All
Hades,
from
a
thousand
thrones,
Shall
do
it
reverence,
And
Death
to
some
more
happy
clime
Shall
give
his
undivided
time.
