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.
REFORM
I
O, how shall I help to right the world that is going wrong!
And what can I do to hurry the promised time of peace!
The day of work is short and the night of sleep is long;
And whether to pray or preach, or whether to sing a song,
To plow in my neighbor's field, or to seek the golden fleece,
Or to sit with my hands in my lap, and wish that ill would cease!
II
I think, sometimes, it were best just to let the Lord alone;
I am sure some people forget He was here before they came;
