The stranger sees the twisted streets,
The myriad-towered maze;
He listens to the grinding din,
And has no word for praise.

" New York, " — he scoffs, " is a painted hag,
Whose art conceals the scars. "
The lights of Broadway mean to him
A string of tinseled stars.

He visions but a monstrous web,
Spun deftly to entice;
We see a spring-enchanting world,
A citied paradise!