Not as when taking the sweep of the bay, Sparkling agleam in the brave Autumn weather, Silent of man in the new dawn aquiver, Anchored his lone ship lay. Not as he sailed where the hills draw together Holding his course up the broad-breasted river, Only the dream of Beyond in his brain, Only the seas of Cathay to attain, On till the narrowed stream told him ’twas vain. Then back as one baffled, undone, Unknowing he’d won by the gate of the sea The throne of an empire of peoples to be. Peace to his dream that found ghastly close Mid the sheeted wraiths of the arctic snows! Not as came Fulton; even he Came brooding at the level of the sea, Elect among the genius-brood of men, Grandson of Ireland, son of the land of Penn, Pale-browed, nursing a great work-day dream— Harnessing the racers of the deep to steam Here first his Clermont turned her paddle blades, And so, our flag above his craft unfurled, He steamed beneath the Palisades, The Father of all steam-fleets of the world. Well may Manhattan glory in his fame, And on her highest roster carve his name, Yet, not as came he, let us come. No: to the skies as on wings Let us rise And come from the east with the faint red dawn, Haven and harbor are carpets of trembling gold, And the silver mist to the green hills clings Till the mounting sun has the web withdrawn, And behold, The city lifts up to its height at last, With frontage of hull and funnel and mast In the day’s full beam, And over the sky-topping roofs in the blue, Over the flags of many a hue Are waving white pennons of steam. We know thee, Manhattan, proud queen, And thy wonderful mural crown, With Liberty islanded there at thy knee, Uplifting her welcome to those who’d be free, And beckoning earth’s trodden down. We know how the waters divide And unite for thy pride, And the lofty bridges of steel stretch hands To the burg on the height that stands For thy wealth’s overflow: With the freighters creeping between, And the slow, slanted sails slipping to and fro, As the giants of ocean steam in and go forth. We trace thy slim island reach up to the north, Its streets in arrowy distance aloom, Its marts, its homes, its far off tomb; The pleasure greens dotting thy vesture of white, And tower and steeple like spears in the light.