POEMS OF MANHATTAN
And onward, like the Babes in the Wood,
We rambled, till before us stood
The outposts of Bohemia.
II
For, roaming blithely many a day,
Eftsoons our little hoard of gold,
Like Christian's follies, slipt away,
Unloosened from the pilgrim's hold,
But left us just as blithe and free;
Whereat our footsteps turned aside
From lord and lady of degree,
And bore us to that brave countree
Where merrily we now abide,—
That proud and humble, poor and grand,
Enchanted, golden Gypsy-Land,
The Valley of Bohemia.
III
Together from the higher clime,
By terraced cliff and copse along,
Adown the slant we stept, in time
To many another pilgrim's song,
And came where faded far away,
Each side, the kingdom's ancient wall,
From breaking into dying day;
Beyond, the magic valley lay,
With glimpse of shimmering stream and fall;
And here, between twin turrets, ran,
Built o'er with arch and barbacan,
The entrance to Bohemia.
IV
Beneath the lichened parapet
Grim-sculptured Gog and Magog bore
The Royal Arms,—Hope's Anchor, set
In azure, on a field of or,
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