Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/274

He stoutly wrestled on his way,
Like swimmer with the billowy bay,
Till all behind his path of toil
Lay in dead waves, the harvest-spoil.

—While we, of bleak New-England's coast,
That ne'er a mine of wealth might boast,
Save what her sons laborious find
Who dig the quarry of the mind,
(And, certes, they such wealth who hold,
May well contemn the lust of gold)
We, still delighted and amazed,
Upon these haunts of richness gazed,
Nor spared to praise, with heart elate,
The splendour of the "Empire State:"
—But lauded more, in accents bland,
The glory of our Native Land,
Who, if she simply understood
The flowing fulness of her good,
And felt her blessings as she ought,
And praised her Maker in her thought,
And did His will, might surely be
The very happiest of the free.