But who their mingled feelings shall pursue
When London’s faded glories rise to view? 
The mighty city, which by every road, [13]
In floods of people poured itself abroad;
Ungirt by walls, irregularly great,
No jealous drawbridge, and no closing gate;
Whose merchants (such the state which commerce brings)
Sent forth their mandates to dependant kings: 
Streets, where the turban’d Moslem, bearded Jew,
And woolly Afric, met the brown Hindu;
Where through each vein spontaneous plenty flowed,
Where Wealth enjoyed, and Charity bestowed. 
Pensive and thoughtful shall the wanderers greet
Each splendid square, and still, untrodden street;
Or of some crumbling turret, mined by time,
The broken stair with perilous step shall climb,
Thence stretch their view the wide horizon round, [14]
By scattered hamlets trace its antient bound,
And, choked no more with fleets, fair Thames survey
Through reeds and sedge pursue his idle way.

With throbbing bosoms shall the wanderers tread
The hallowed mansions of the silent dead,
Shall enter the long isle and vaulted dome
Where Genius and where Valour find a home;
Awe-struck, midst chill sepulchral marbles breathe,
Where all above is still, as all beneath;
Bend at each antique shrine, and frequent turn
To clasp with fond delight some sculptured urn,
The ponderous mass of Johnson’s form to greet,
Or breathe the prayer at Howard’s sainted feet.

Perhaps some Briton, in whose musing mind [15]
Those ages live which Time has cast behind,
To every spot shall lead his wondering guests
On whose known site the beam of glory rests: 
Here Chatham’s eloquence in thunder broke,
Here Fox persuaded, or here Garrick spoke;
Shall boast how Nelson, fame and death in view,
To wonted victory led his ardent crew,
In England’s name enforced, with loftiest tone[2],
Their duty,—­and too well fulfilled his own: 
How gallant Moore[3], as ebbing life dissolved,
But hoped his country had his fame absolved. 
Or call up sages whose capacious mind [16]
Left in its course a track of light behind;
Point where mute crowds on Davy’s lips reposed,
And Nature’s coyest secrets were disclosed;
Join with their Franklin, Priestley’s injured name,
Whom, then, each continent shall proudly claim.

Oft shall the strangers turn their eager feet
The rich remains of antient art to greet,
The pictured walls with critic eye explore,
And Reynolds be what Raphael was before. 
On spoils from every clime their eyes shall gaze,
Ægyptian granites and the Etruscan vase;
And when midst fallen London, they survey
The stone where Alexander’s ashes lay,
Shall own with humbled pride the lesson just [17]
By Time’s slow finger written in the dust.