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!