Poems / William Cullen Bryant [electronic text]

HYMN OF THE CITY.

NOT in the solitude Alone, may man commune with Heaven, or see Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity; Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty!—here, amidst the crowd Through the great city rolled, With everlasting murmur, deep and loud— Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind

Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes— For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;

And this eternal sound— Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng— Like the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.

And when the hours of rest Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hushing its billowy breast— The quiet of that moment, too, is thine; It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.