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, cowlè d, 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.