From whose walls the impulse went
Which set free a continent;
From whose pulpit's oracle
Prophecies of freedom fell;
And whose steeple-rocking din
Rang the nation's birth-day in!
Standing at this very hour
Perilled like St. Michael's tower,
Held not in the clasp of flame,
But by mammon's grasping claim.
Shall it be of Boston said
She is shamed by Marblehead?
City of our pride! as there,
Hast thou none to do and dare?
Life was risked for Michael's shrine;
Shall not wealth be staked for thine?
Woe to thee, when men shall search
Vainly for the Old South Church;
When from Neck to Boston Stone,
All thy pride of place is gone;
When from Bay and railroad car,
Stretched before them wide and far,
Men shall only see a great
Wilderness of brick and slate,
Every holy spot o'erlaid
By the commonplace of trade!
City of our love': to thee
Duty is but destiny.
True to all thy record saith,
Keep with thy traditions faith;
Ere occasion's overpast,
Hold its flowing forelock fast;
Honor still the precedents
Of a grand munificence;
In thy old historic way
Give, as thou didst yesterday
At the South-land's call, or on
Need's demand from fired St. John.
Set thy Church's muffled bell
Free the generous deed to tell.
Let thy loyal hearts rejoice
In the glad, sonorous voice,
Ringing from the brazen mouth
Of the bell of the Old South,—
Ringing clearly, with a will,
“What she was is Boston still!”