Our State

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)

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.