Eepoet of Boaed of General Managers. 125 



Drear as another Tyre, 

 Her palaces in ruins overset, 

 Her shores begirt with weed and drying net, 

 And not a lettered stone to tell her fate; 



Yea, and her rival here, 

 Arising like the domes of Kubla Khan 

 In poet's vision clear, 

 Dissolved as swift again along the strand 

 To grassy swamps and dunes of sifted sand. 

 Spurned by the scornful spray of Michigan. 



Such things must come again, 

 Wherever in their hope and virtue rise 

 A race of wise, free men; 

 But what were grain field, railway, granite street. 

 Or golden ornament, or gallant fleet. 

 If he who made, whose service glorifies. 



Should suffer, shrink, and dwarf 

 In plain, or mart, or by his factory wheels. 

 Or on the crowded wharf ? 

 Since not the mountain, in his cloudy stole, 

 Nor the great sea, outranks the conscious soul 

 That knows their glory and their beauty feels. 



But out on dreams of dread! 

 In him I put my waking faith and trust, 

 A king in heart and head, 

 Who masters forces, shapes material things, 

 Who loves his kind, whose common sense has wings, 

 The true American, the kindly just, 

 Full prompt in word and deed. 

 And ready, to make good some human hope. 

 In time of utter need, 

 To cross at Delaware the ice's gorge. 

 Or tread blood boltered snow at Valley Forge, 

 Or keep at Gettysburg the gun-shook slope! 



And greater faith I ask 

 For that mysterious power that watches o'er 

 The workman at his task; 

 That shapes his effort to the higher aim 

 And will not let his straying fingers frame 

 A graven thing — to worship and adore. 



