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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
112
THE CITY
Come, Spirit of Song! true, faithful friend of mine!Oft hast thou served me in life's warfare rough;
No knight of old found lance more keen or tough
At tourney or in dreadful battle-line:
Come, tho' they own thee not, the Muses Nine;
Strike one more blow,—the past is not enough,—
Not now for Love's sake, nor in Fate's rebuff,
Nor for Provence and all its golden wine:
But be one iron scorn for this huge town
Where love of God has turned to lust of gold,
And civic pride in private greed grows cold;
Where speculation stains the judge's gown,
And where, in new-born broods, foul beasts of prey
Ravage the treasure-house by night and day.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |