The miner on Superior’s pictured cliffs,
Where sings the thunder its eternal hymn,
Waits in his cabin rude for hours of spring,
Giving up pleasure, and e’en health itself,
That he may climb to fortune’s fickle height
Through veins of copper, and up shafts of gold.
The pilgrim’s son, in freedom, builds his cot,
And hails a shadowy old world from the new,
On the Pacific’s main, where blooming hills
Hang o’er the flood, and catch the dying strain