Eastwards through busy streets I lingered on; 
Jostled by anxious crowds, who, heart and brain, 
Were so absorbed in dreams of Mammon-gain, 
That they could spare no time to look upon 
The sunset's gold and crimson fires, which shone 
Blessing keen eyes and wrinkled brows in vain. 

Right in my path stood out that solemn Fane 
Whose soaring cupola of stern grey stone 
Lifteth for awful beacon to the sky 
The burning Cross: silent and sole amid 
That ceaseless uproar, as a pyramid 
Isled in its desert. The great throngs pressed by 
Heedless and urgent thus Religion towers 
Above this sordid, restless life of ours.