| Lo! | 
| death has reared himself throne | 
| In a strange city lying 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 | 
| 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 rays from the holy heaven come down | 
| On the long night-time of that town | 
| But light from out the lurid sea | 
| Streams up the turrets silently | 
| Gleams up the pinnacles far and free | 
| Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls | 
| Up fanes, up Babylon, like walls | 
| Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers | 
| Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers. | 
| Up many and many a marvellous shrine | 
| Whose wreathed friezes intertwine | 
| The viol, the violet and the vine | 
| Resignedly beneath the sky | 
| The melancholy waters lie | 
| So blend the turrets and shadows there | 
| That all seem pendulous in air | 
| While from a proud tower in the town | 
| Death looks gigantically down. | 
| There open fanes and gaping graves | 
| Yawn level with luminous waves | 
| But not the riches there that lie | 
| In each idol’s diamond eye | 
| Not the gaily-jewelled dead | 
| Tempt the waters from their bed | 
| For no ripples curl, alas! | 
| Along that wilderness of glass | 
| No swellings tell that winds may be | 
| Upon some far-off happier sea | 
| No heavings hint winds have been | 
| On seas less hideously serene. | 
| But lo! | 
| a stir in the air | 
| The wave, there is a movement there | 
| As if towers had thrust aside | 
| In slightly sinking the dull tide | 
| As if their tops had feebly given | 
| A void within the filmy heaven. | 
| The waves have now a redder glow | 
| The hours are breathing faint and low | 
| And when, amid no earthly moans | 
| Down, down that town shall settle hence | 
| Hell, rising from a thousand thrones | 
| Shall do it reverence. |