The Old Lowe House, Staten Island

Another prospect pleased the builder's eye,

And Fashion tenanted ( where Fashion wanes )

Here in the sorrowful suburban lanes

When first these gables rose against the sky.

Relic of a romantic taste gone by,

This stately monument alone remains,

Vacant, with lichened walls and window-panes

Blank as the windows of a skull. But I,

On evenings when autumnal winds have stirred

In the porch-vines, to this gray oracle

Have laid a wondering ear and oft-times heard,

As from the hollow of a stranded shell,

Old voices echoing ( or my fancy erred )

Things indistinct, but not insensible.