Classic Poem

What is it that thou lackest,
Mine own dear Fatherland?
The rumours of thy riches
Are heard on every hand.

They say thou art a garden
Where Eden's wealth is found;
What hast thou yet to wish for,
When all thy praises sound?

We read, an ancient worthy
Hath written thus of thee:
" Though men should seek thy ruin,
Thou couldst not ruined be. "

Do not thy fruitful cornfields
Like some vast sea extend?
While from a thousand hill-tops
Red streams of must descend?

And swarm not shoals of fishes
In every dyke and stream?
Do not thy forest-copses
With game exhaustless teem?

Roams not o'er every mountain
The shepherd's fleecy care?
And hast thou not strong horses
And heifers everywhere?

Is not " Black Forest " timber
In every land extolled?
Hast thou not salt and iron,
And even grains of gold?

And are not all thy women
Domestic, pure, and true?
Blooms not in every province
A vineyard always new?

And are not all thy yeomen
Industrious, honest, blunt?
In arts of peace accomplished,
And brave in battle's brunt?

Thou land of corn and vineyards,
Whereon such blessings 'light,
What lack'st thou? One , yea, all things —
Where's now the Good Old Right?