The city’s rough, harsh imps of sound

And Competition’s crush and cheat

Were in her wreath securely bound;{38}

{38}

Her fruits still savored of the street,

Its choking dust, its wearied feet,

Her poorest like her richest prize

Was rotted o’er with envious eyes,

And sickened with the human heat

Of hands that strove to clutch it fast,

And struggling gave it up at last.

Not so where nature summer-crowned

Makes fields and woods a pleasure-ground,

Sky-blest, wind-kissed, and circled round

With waters lapsing cool and sweet.

V

O EARTH, sweet Mother, take us back!

O

With woodland strength and orchard joy,

And river peace without alloy,

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