Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land,
Unheeded pass'd our little roving band,
--For every soul had something here to do,
Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view--
By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles 'bide,
In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side,
And York and Lancaster--whose rival rose
In this good land, no bloody discord knows.
Not such their fate!--the ever grateful soil
Rewards the blue-eyed German's patient toil;
Richer and rounder every year he grows,
Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knows
Than caitiff grub, or cursed Hessian fly,
Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky;
Before he sells, the market's sudden fall,
Or sudden rise, when sold--still worse than all!
Calmly he lives--the tempest of the mind,
That marks its course by many a wreck behind;
The purpose high that great ambition feels,
Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals,
But never in his sober waking thought
One stirring, active impulse ever wrought.
Calmly he lives--as free from good as blame,
His home, his dress, his equipage the same;
And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgot
What once he was, or what he once was not--
An honest man, perhaps,--'tis somewhat odd
That such should be the noblest work of God!
So have I seen, in garden rich and gay,
A stately cabbage waxing fat each day;
Unlike the lively foliage of the trees,
Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze,
Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around,
Upon its clumsy stem is ever found;
It heeds not noontide heats, nor evening's balm,
And stands unmoved in one eternal calm.
At last, when all the garden's pride is lost
It ripens in drear autumn's killing frost,
And in a savoury sourkrout finds its end,
From which detested dish, me heaven defend!