Brooding he dreams his age-long dream:
He sees not London's pouring stream
Around him, with these eyes that seem

As if for aye his memory dwells
'Mid lone, sand-smothered citadels,
Where in long waves the desert swells

O'er fallen arch and colonnade,
Stairway and tomb and balustrade
By hands of mighty builders made, -

'Mid fights long fought, and banquets fled,
Where softly falls the lion's tread
O'er ashes of the ancient dead.