Classic Poem

Last of the thirteen, smallest of them all,
What canst thou bring to this World's Festival,
Where all thy sisters come in pride and power
And bring each one a Princess' generous dower
Of gold and gems, and fruits, and precious woods,
And joyous tribute of their costly goods?

The wild Atlantic beats thy shore,
The fleecy sea fog folds thee round,
Point Judith counts its wrecks by score,
Where stately ships their graves have found.
The Seekonk takes its shining way
Past swelling hills of tender green,
To where the waters of the bay
Bask softly in their silver sheen.
So small a State that it is true
From any top of highest hill,
Another State still comes to view
To give the gazing eye its fill.

What can we bring? No outward show of gain,
No pomp of state; we bring the sons of men!
The man who lived two centuries ago
In persecutions which set hearts aglow,
Who dared to say, when everywhere world-wide
Men made belief and state-craft coincide,
" We have no law to punish or disperse
Those who express their faith in ways diverse; "
Successors to that man full well may dare
To claim they are a prophet's lawful heir.
These many years to us there have not failed
Some lofty spirits with whom truth prevailed,
Who stood for right, the high, the ideal things
Until this freedom with its healing wings
Spread over all the land, and now the whole
From East to West has the Rhode Island soul.

Bring gold, fair sisters, yellow gold
And gems, and all that's fair and fine,
And heap them all, the new, the old,
Before our country's stately shrine.
Bring hardihood from north and east,
Bring beauty from the south and west,
Bring valor to adorn the feast,
Bring all that has withstood time's test.
We grudge you not the riches rare,
We grudge you not your acres broad;
We bring you for our noble share
The liberty to worship God.