THE Cities are full of pride, That from her burthened beach. They count their ships full tale- And rampart's gun-flecked line; City by city they hail : "Hast aught to match with mine?" And the men that breed from them They traffic up and down, But cling to their cities' hem As a child to the mother's gown. When they talk with the stranger bands, Dazed and newly alone; When they walk in the stranger lands, By roaring streets unknown; Blessing her where she stands For strength above their own. (On high to hold her fame That stands all fame beyond, By oath to back the same, Most faithful-foolish-fond; Making her mere-breathed name So thank I God my birth Or warring tribes untried But that she lent me worth Surely in toil or fray Under an alien sky, Comfort it is to say: "Of no mean city am I." (Neither by service nor fee Come I to mine estateMother of Cities to me, For I was born in her gate, Between the palms and the sea, Where the world-end steamers wait.) Now for this debt I owe, And for her far-borne cheer Must I make haste and go With tribute to her pier. And she shall touch and remit My deep-sea plunderings, Her power is over mine, And mine I hold at her hands. |