The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[292] For you, from Carolina's pine
     The rosin-gum is stealing;
For you, the dark-eyed Florentine
     Her silken skein is reeling;
For you, the dizzy goatherd roams
     His rugged Alpine ledges;
For you, round all her shepherd homes,
     Bloom England's thorny hedges.

The foremost still, by day or night,
     On moated mound or heather,
Where'er the need of trampled right
     Brought toiling men together;
Where the free burghers from the wall
     Defied the mail-clad master,
Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call,
     No craftsmen rallied faster.

Let foplings sneer, let fools deride,
     Ye heed no idle scorner;
Free hands and hearts are still your pride,
     And duty done, your honor.
Ye dare to trust, for honest fame,
     The jury Time empanels,
And leave to truth each noble name
     Which glorifies your annals.

Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet,
     In strong and hearty German;
And Bloomfield's lay, and Gifford's wit,
     And patriot fame of Sherman;
Still from his book, a mystic seer,
     The soul of Behmen teaches,