Truce to the hunt of gold,
O brothers strong and bold;
Life hath a beauty far
Beyond this traffic jar;
In vain trade's towers on high
Blacken against the sky—
The wind, a wild thing—blows—
And bluer, purer now the heaven shows.

From factory, wharf and wall
Some pallid flower may crawl;
Take it and from your soul
Put off the childish rôle,
And, though across a grill,
Let sun your ruins fill.
Fear not, your little song
Can stay machines not long
From their gigantic beat;
The meadow-lark with fleet
Sweep to heaven from the soil
A shaft of song is, for the son of toil.

Ye heralds of the suns,
And swallow-myrmidons,—
Lend courage to me now
This hour of solemn vow;—
That here amid our rude
Metropolis may brood
Forever fruit of song;
That artists, poets, long
Their refuge here may find,
Comfort and peace of mind;
That here all work, all thought,
All song, to harvest brought,
May see the grim tower to a blossom wrought!