  Here the old Fort stood When the river bent southward. Now because the world pours itself into Chicago The Lake runs into the river Past docks and switch-yards, And under bridges of iron. Sand dunes stretched along the lake for miles. There was a great forest in the Loop. Now Michigan Avenue lies Between miles of lights, And the Rialto blazes Where the wolf howled. In the loneliness of the log-cabin, Across the river, The fur-trader played his fiddle When the snow lay About the camp of the Pottawatomies In the great forest. Now to the music of the Kangaroo Hop, And Ragging the Scale, The boys and girls are dancing In a cafe near Lake Street. The world is theirs now. There is neither a past nor a to-morrow, Save of dancing. Nor do they know that behind them In the seed not yet sown There are eyes which will open upon Chicago, And feet which will blossom for the dance, And hands which will reach up And push them into the silence Of the old fiddler. They threw a flag Over the coffin of Lieutenant Farnum And buried him back of the Fort In ground where now The spice mills stand. And his little squaw with a baby Sat on the porch grieving While the band played. Then hands pushing the world Buried a million soldiers and afterward Pale multitudes swept through the Court-house To gaze for the last time Upon the shrunken face of Lincoln. And the fort at thirty-fifth street vanished. And where the Little Giant lived They made a park And put his statue Upon a column of marble. Now the glare of the steel mills at South Chicago Lights the bronze brow of Douglas. It is his great sorrow Haunting the Lake at mid-night. When the South was beaten They were playing John Brown’s body lies mouldering in the Grave, And Babylon is Fallen and Wake Nicodemus. Now the boys and girls are dancing To the Merry Whirl and Hello Frisco Where they waltzed in crinoline When the Union was saved. There was the Marble Terrace Glory of the seventies! They wrecked it, And brought colors and figures From later Athens and Pompeii And put them on walls. And beneath panels of red and gold, And shimmering tesserÆ, And tragic masks and comic masks, Upon mosaic floors Red lipped women are dancing With dark men. Some sit at tables drinking and watching, Amorous in an air of French perfumes. Like ships at mid-night The kingdoms of the world Know not whither they go nor to what port. Nor do you, embryo hands, In the seed not yet sown Know of the wars to come. They may fill the sky with armored dragons And the waters with iron monsters; They may build arsenals Where now upon marble floors The boys and girls Are dancing the Alabama Jubilee, The processional of time is a falling stream Through which you thrust your hand. And between the dancers and the silence forever There shall be the livers Gazing upon the torches they have lighted, And watching their own which are failing, And crying for oil, And finding it not! |
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