The people are the city.
Coriolanus, Act iii.  Sc. 1.  Shakespeare.

  Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me
          than mast-hemmed Manhattan? 
  River and sunset and scallop-edged waves of flood-tide? 
  The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the
          twilight, and the belated lighter?
Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.  W. Whitman.

  A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
    Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye
  Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
    In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
  Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
    On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
  A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
  On a fool’s head—­and there is London Town,
Don Juan, Canto X.  Lord Byron.

   On the AEgean shore a city stands,
  Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil,
  Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
  And eloquence, native to famous wits,
  Or hospitable, in her sweet recess,
  City or suburban, studious walks and shades;
  See there the olive grove of Academe,
  Plato’s retirement, where the Attic bird
  Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.
Paradise Regained, Bk.  IV.  MILTON.

  I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
  A palace and a prison on each hand: 
  I saw from out the wave her structures rise
  As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand;
  A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
  Around me, and a dying glory smiles
  O’er the far times, when many a subject land
  Looked to the winged Lion’s marble piles. 
  Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
Childe Harold, Canto IV.  LORD BYRON.

  In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more. 
   And silent rows the songless gondolier;
  Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
   And music meets not always now the ear.
Childe Harold, Canto IV.  LORD BYRON.

  O Rome! my country! city of the soul! 
  The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
  Lone mother of dead empires!

* * * * *

  The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
  Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
  An empty urn within her withered hands,
  Whose holy dust was scattered long ago.
Childe Harold, Canto IV.  LORD BYRON.

CLERGY.

  He ’stablishes the strong, restores the weak,
  Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart.
The Timepiece:  The Task, Bk.  II.  W. COWPER.

  Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,
  Show me the steep and thorny way to Heaven,
  Whilst, like a puffed and reckless libertine,
  Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,
  And recks not his own rede.
Hamlet, Act i.  Sc. 3.  SHAKESPEARE.