The Cities are full of pride, Challenging each to each — This from her mountain-side, That from her burthened beach.
They count their ships full tale — Their corn and oil and wine, Derrick and loom and bale, 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 Their bond upon their bond. ) So thank I God my birth Fell not in isles aside —
Waste headlands of the earth, Or warring tribes untried — But that she lent me worth And gave me right to pride.
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 estate — Mother 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 After the use of kings
( Orderly, ancient, fit ) My deep-sea plunderings, And purchase in all lands. And this we do for a sign
Her power is over mine, And mine I hold at her hands.
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