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Ours be the grandeur, and ours the glee,
For we o'er the hills and the heaths wave free.
We bend not our purple and fearless crests,
To meaner things, though in gaudier vests.
Freely above us the wind may blow,
Merrily round us the streamlet flow;
And the promise-toned hum of the busy bee,
The glad day long,
Seems a harvest song
Of joy, for the sweets that from flower and tree,
Around us flung,
And the honeyed bells of the purple Heather,
She hath gathered in store for the wintery weather.
Ye are sheltered, ye say, from the blights of even;
Oh! are ye not hid from the sunlit heaven?
Ye are cultured, and cherished, and tended—true;
But are ye not exiles and captives too?
Are ye not victims of pride and art?
From Nature's paths do ye not depart?
For eve's gentle dew, and morn's bright beam,
Have ye not fires, and stoves, and steam?
And while we quaff gaily our Summer rain,
A few stagnant drops your lives sustain:
And while we are kissed and rocked by the breeze,
Ye stand erect in your palaces,
Each, ranged in his special rank and place,
Holding proudly on high his titled face.
