So the gentle poet’s name
To foreign parts is blown by fame,
Seek him in his native town,
He is hidden and unknown.

BOSTON

SICUT PATRIBUS, SIT DEUS NOBIS

The rocky nook with hilltops three
  Looked eastward from the farms,
And twice each day the flowing sea
  Took Boston in its arms;
The men of yore were stout and poor,
And sailed for bread to every shore.

And where they went on trade intent
  They did what freemen can,
Their dauntless ways did all men praise,
  The merchant was a man. 
The world was made for honest trade,—­
To plant and eat be none afraid.

The waves that rocked them on the deep
  To them their secret told;
Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep,
  ‘Like us be free and bold!’
The honest waves refused to slaves
The empire of the ocean caves.

Old Europe groans with palaces,
  Has lords enough and more;—­
We plant and build by foaming seas
  A city of the poor;—­
For day by day could Boston Bay
Their honest labor overpay.

We grant no dukedoms to the few,
  We hold like rights, and shall;—­
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
  On Monday in the mall,
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?

The noble craftsman we promote,
  Disown the knave and fool;
Each honest man shall have his vote,
  Each child shall have his school. 
A union then of honest men,
Or union never more again.

The wild rose and the barberry thorn
  Hung out their summer pride,
Where now on heated pavements worn
  The feet of millions stride.

Fair rose the planted hills behind
  The good town on the bay,
And where the western hills declined
  The prairie stretched away.

What care though rival cities soar
  Along the stormy coast,
Penn’s town, New York and Baltimore,
  If Boston knew the most!

They laughed to know the world so wide;
  The mountains said, ’Good-day! 
We greet you well, you Saxon men,
  Up with your towns and stay!’
The world was made for honest trade,—­
To plant and eat be none afraid.

‘For you,’ they said, ’no barriers be,
  For you no sluggard rest;
Each street leads downward to the sea,
  Or landward to the west.’

O happy town beside the sea,
  Whose roads lead everywhere to all;
Than thine no deeper moat can be,
  No stouter fence, no steeper wall!

Bad news from George on the English throne;
  ‘You are thriving well,’ said he;
’Now by these presents be it known
  You shall pay us a tax on tea;
’Tis very small,—­no load at all,—­
Honor enough that we send the call.

‘Not so,’ said Boston, ’good my lord,
  We pay your governors here
Abundant for their bed and board,
  Six thousand pounds a year. 
(Your Highness knows our homely word)
  Millions for self-government,
  But for tribute never a cent.’