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Serene, indifferent of Fate,
Thou sittest at the Western Gate;

 

Upon thy heights so lately won
Still slant the banners of the sun;

 

Thou seest the white seas strike their tents,
O Warder of two Continents!

 

And scornful of the peace that flies
Thy angry winds and sullen skies,

 

Thou drawest all things, small or great,
To thee, beside the Western Gate.

* * *

O lion's whelp! that hidest fast
In jungle growth of spire and mast,

 

I know thy cunning and thy greed,
Thy hard high lust and wilful deed,

 

And all thy glory loves to tell
Of specious gifts material.

 

Drop down, O fleecy Fog! and hide
Her sceptic sneer, and all her pride.

 

Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood
Of her Franciscan Brotherhood.

 

Hide me her faults, her sin and blame;
With thy gray mantle cloak her shame!

 

So shall she, cowl├Ęd, sit and pray
Till morning bears her sins away.

 

Then rise, O fleecy Fog, and raise
The glory of her coming days;

 

Be as the cloud that flecks the seas
Above her smokey argosies.

 

When forms familiar shall give place
To stranger speech and newer face;

 

When all her throes and anxious fears
Lie hushed in the repose of years;

 

When Art shall raise and Culture lift
The sensual joys and meaner thrift,

 

And all fulfilled the vision, we
Who watch and wait shall never see,--

 

Who, in the morning of her race,
Toiled fair or meanly in our place,--

 

But, yielding to the common lot,
Lie unrecorded and forgot.