Classic Poem

All hail to thee, thou city,
Mysterious, awful, great,
Within whose ample circuit
My darling dwelt of late!

Tell me, ye gates and turrets,
Hold you my darling still?
I gave her to your keeping,
You must the pledge fulfil.

The turrets, I hold, are guiltless;
They are fixed, and could not give chase,
When she, with boxes and parcels,
Hastily left the place.

But the wicked gates, they saw her,
And, when she passed, stood still—
The way is always open
When the wayward work their will.