The toiling farmer, with his wheat and tares,
The poet by the shaded streams and nooks,
The man, whate’er his work, wherever done,
If intellect and honor guide his hand,
Is peer to him who greatest state has won,
And rich as any Rothschild of the land.
All mere distinctions based upon pretense,
Are merely laughing themes for manly hearts.
The miner’s cradle claims from men of sense
More honor than the youngling Bonaparte’s.