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 the 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.