Dedication: To The City Of Bombay

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.

Surely in toil or fray
  Under an alien sky,
Comfort it is to say:
  "Of no mean city am I."

(Neither by service nor fee
  Come I to mine estate--
Mother of Cities to me,
  For I was born in her gate,
Between the palms and the sea,
  Where the world-end steamers wait.)

Now for this debt I owe,
  And for her far-borne cheer
Must I make haste and go
  With tribute to her pier.

 And she shall touch and remit
  After the use of kings
(Orderly, ancient, fit)
  My deep-sea plunderings,
And purchase in all lands.
  And this we do for a sign
  Her power is over mine,
And mine I hold at her hands.