To the Directors of Amsterdam, in Their New Stadthouse

Illustrious men! who bade the world's eighth wonder rise,
Lifting its crown of stone sublimely to the skies;
Whose splendid walls are rear'd by skill's unerring hand,
To Use, the end, the source of all that's rich and grand;
May God, who gave you power to mingle good with show,
Within that stately pile his favouring smiles bestow,
That ye to all the world may prove what men ye are;
And peace be ever there — and misery banish'd far.
But if it be ordain'd, when years have roll'd away,
That e'en these marble walls must crumble and decay;
And if it be by Heav'n, in future times, decreed,
That to your wondrous work another must succeed, —
May God, your fathers' God — may God, your children's father,
Beneath his shadowing wings those children kindly gather,
And give them an abode, when ye from earth have past,
As much excelling this, as this excels the last!