‘ TWAS dull and gray, the marsh that lay
Out-stretched afar — a dreary waste
Of tide lands low, where ebb and flow
The waters, that with reckless haste
Have crept inland, and silent stand
In reedy pools, or tiny lakes.
There skimming low, now swift, now slow,
The sea-bird pauses oft and takes
A plunge among the luckless throng
That here have found a quiet home;
Or rising there, in lofty air,
A snowy speck in sunlight shone.
But just beyond, the marsh's bound
A city‘ mongst fair groves we traced
Here factory tall, and cottage small
Each to the picture lent its grace
Enchanting view! Thy charms they woo
To Alameda's fair retreat
And bid us wait within her gate
Her hidden glories there to greet.