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 their 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!