In a wilderness of wonders they are piling up the stores
Gathered by the hands of labor on a hundred happy shores;
In a palpitating plexus of white palaces they heap
The marvels of the earth and air--the treasures of the deep;
They have reached their restless fingers in the pockets of the past,
And robbed the sleeping miser of the wealth he had amassed--
To the festival of nations--to the tournament of toil,
They have garnered in the offerings of every sun and soil;
They have levied on the genius of the age, and it replies
Full handed, with the blessed light of heaven in its eyes;
In honor of old Spain they have taxed the brawn and brain
Of a planet, for the glory of that Master of the Main,
Whose fortitude is written on each flag that is unfurled
Above the great white city of the world.