And now I'm rich (who ever thought 'twould be!) I'll look about, and see what I can see; Appoint myself a visiting committee, With power to act in all parts of the city; Growl when I must, commend whene'er I can, And lose no chance to help my fellow-man. For he who joy on others' paths has thrown, Will find there's some left over for his own; And he who leads his brother toward the sky, Will in the journey bring himself more nigh. And what I see and think, in my own way, I'll tell to you, Old Calendar, each day; And if I choose to do the same in rhyme, What jury would convict me of a crime? For every one, from palaces to attics, Has caught, some time or other, _The Rhythmatics_. * * * * * [_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._] Still through The City I ponder, Still do I wonder and wander. City--unconscious descendant Of olden-time cities resplendent! Child of rich forefathers hoary, Clad in their gloom and their glory!-- Dream I of you in the rich, mellow past, Throbbing with life, and with Death overcast. Thebes--not to you, crushed and ghastly and dumb, Even the wreck-loving Ivy will come! Where stood your hundred broad, world-famous gates, Now a black Arab for charity waits. Not like this City--metropolis bold-- Where the whole world brings its goods and its gold! Babylon--here the queen's gardens climbed high, Painting their flowers on the blue of the sky: [Illustration: "I SAW TALL DERRICKS BY THE HUNDRED RISE."] This is where sinners, one asinine hour, Thought they could travel to Heaven by tower. (How like some sinners to-day, whose desires Mount by the way of their greed-builded spires!) Troy--of rare riches and valor possessed, Ruined fore'er by one beautiful guest-- (Here many Helens, though less of renown, Do for some men what she did for a town!) Wondrous Palmyra, whose island of green, 'Mid the bleak sand, reared the beautiful queen (Sweet-faced Zenobia, peerless Proud in her virtue, and fearless) In this metropolis, virtuously grand, Many a queen is a joy to the land! Tyre--the huge pillars that groaned under thee, Rest in the depths of a desolate sea; Long may it be ere the spray's salted showers Foam o'er the walls of this city of ours! Mound-men's vast cities, whose graves we accost, Even your names are in ruins--and lost. What if, some time when this nation is nought, Vainly our names in our graves should be sought! * * * * *