DEDICATION OF “THE DREAM OF MAN”

City that waitest to be sung,—

For whom no hand

To mighty strains the lyre hath strung

In all this land,

Though mightier theme the mightiest ones

Sang not of old,

The thrice three sisters’ godlike sons

With lips of gold,—

Till greater voice thy greatness sing

In loftier times,

Suffer an alien muse to bring

Her votive rhymes.

Yes, alien in thy midst am I,

Not of thy brood;

The nursling of a norland sky

Of rougher mood:

To me, thy tarrying guest, to me,

‘ Mid thy loud hum,

Strayed visions of the moor or sea

Tormenting come.

Above the thunder of the wheels

That hurry by,

From lapping of lone waves there steals

A far-sent sigh;

And many a dream-reared mountain crest

My feet have trod,

There where thy Minster in the West

Gropes toward God.

Yet, from thy presence if I go,

By woodlands deep

Or ocean-fringes, thou, I know,

Wilt haunt my sleep;

Thy restless tides of life will foam,

Still, in my sight;

Thy imperturbable dark dome

Will crown my night.

O sea of living waves that roll

On golden sands,

Or break on tragic reef and shoal

‘ Mid fatal lands;

O forest wrought of living leaves,

Some filled with Spring,

Where joy life's festal raiment weaves

And all birds sing,—

Some trampled in the miry ways,

Or whirled along

By fury of tempestuous days,—

Take thou my song!

For thou hast scorned not heretofore

The gifts of rhyme

I dropped, half faltering, at thy door,

City sublime;

And though‘ tis true I am but guest

Within thy gate,

Unto thy hands I owe the best

Awards of fate.

Imperial hostess! thanks from me

To thee belong:

O living forest, living sea,

Take thou my song!