SYDNEY DOBELL.

* * * * *

OUR STATE.

  The south-land boasts its teeming cane,
  The prairied west its heavy grain,
  And sunset’s radiant gates unfold
  On rising marts and sands of gold!

  Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State
  Is scant of soil, of limits strait;
  Her yellow sands are sands alone,
  Her only mines are ice and stone!

  From autumn frost to April rain,
  Too long her winter woods complain;
  From budding flower to falling leaf,
  Her summer time is all too brief.

  Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands,
  And wintry hills, the school-house stands;
  And what her rugged soil denies
  The harvest of the mind supplies.

  The riches of the commonwealth
  Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health;
  And more to her than gold or grain
  The cunning hand and cultured brain.

  For well she keeps her ancient stock,
  The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock;
  And still maintains, with milder laws,
  And clearer light, the good old cause!

  Nor heeds the sceptic’s puny hands,
  While near her school the church-spire stands;
  Nor fears the blinded bigot’s rule,
  While near her church-spire stands the school.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

* * * * *

THE REPUBLIC.

FROM “THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP.”

  Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! 
  Sail on, O UNION, strong and great! 
  Humanity with all its fears,
  With all the hopes of future years,
  Is hanging breathless on thy fate! 
  We know what Master laid thy keel,
  What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
  Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
  What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
  In what a forge and what a heat
  Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! 
  Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
  ’Tis of the wave and not the rock;
  ’Tis but the flapping of the sail,
  And not a rent made by the gale! 
  In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,
  In spite of false lights on the shore,
  Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 
  Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
  Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
  Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,
  Are all with thee,—­are all with thee!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

AMERICA

[1832.]

  My country, ’tis of thee,
  Sweet land of liberty,
      Of thee I sing;
  Land where my fathers died,
  Land of the pilgrims’ pride,
  From every mountain-side
     Let freedom ring.

  My native country, thee,
  Land of the noble free,—­
     Thy name I love;
  I love thy rocks and rills,
  Thy woods and templed hills;
  My heart with rapture thrills
       Like that above.