"Chicago," by Bret Harte
At the time of the fire, Harte had just established an international reputation with the local color stories in The Luck of Roaring Camp, and Other Sketches.
Blackened and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone
On the charred fragments of her shattered throne
Lies she who stood but yesterday alone.
Queen of the West! by some enchanter taught
To lift the glory of Aladdin's court,
Then lose the spell that all that wonder wrought.
Like her own prairies by some chance seed sown,
Like her own prairies in one brief day grown,
Like her own prairies in one fierce night mown.
She lifts her voice, and in her pleading call
We hear the cry of Macedon to Paul--
The cry for help that makes her kin to all.
But haply with wan finger may she feel
The silver cup hid in the proffered meal--
The gifts her kinship and our loves reveal.
