Hymn of the City

Not in the solitudeAlone may man commune with heaven, or seeOnly in savage woodAnd sunny vale, the present Deity;Or only hear his voiceWhere the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I beholdThy steps, Almighty!--here, amidst the crowd,Through the great city rolled,With everlasting murmur deep and loud--Choking the ways that wind'Mongst the proud piles, the work of humankind.

Thy golden sunshine comesFrom the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies,And lights their inner homes;For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies,And givest them the storesOf ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy spirit is around,Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;And this eternal sound--Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng--Like the resounding sea,Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.

And when the hours of restCome, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,Hushing its billowy breast--The quiet of that moment too is thine;It breathes of him who keepsThe vast and helpless city while it sleeps.