Classic Poem

Sublime, where traffic's billows beat
A nation's wealth about his feet,
He stands; upon the surging street
He looks benignly down.
He hears the distant, wall-hid sea,
The silver chime of Trinity,
And, voicing passion, grief, or glee,
Our million-throated town.

And, up and down, our tasks we ply
With rapid step and heedless eye,
Alert alone to sell and buy;
But when the day grows dim,
When evening brings its sweet release
From toil and care, when tumults cease,
When twilight crowns his brow with peace,
The children come to him.

Rejoicing, free, in careless grace
They climb the massy granite base;
Unawed, they view that noble face,
They swarm the brazen knees
Whose polished surface now denies
The gray of age that artists prize;
But more than art is all that lies
In love of such as these.

What matters race, or hue, or creed?
Though born to wealth or born to need,
Or sprung of poor plebeian seed
Or proud patrician stem,
From lowly hut or lordly hall —
By these his land shall rise or fall.
His hand outstretched above them all,
Their father blesses them.