The Worlds Best Poetry, Volume 8 | Page 7

And crush the tyrant while they rend the
chain; These constitute a State; And sovereign law, that State's
collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate Sits empress, crowning
good, repressing ill. Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend, Dissension,
like a vapor sinks; And e'en the all-dazzling crown Hides his faint rays,
and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heaven-loved isle, Than
Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! No more shall freedom smile? Shall
Britons languish, and be men no more? Since all must life resign,
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline,
And steal inglorious to the silent grave.
SIR WILLIAM JONES.
* * * * *

BREATHES THERE THE MAN?
FROM "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL," CANTO VI.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath
said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart has ne'er within him
burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a
foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no
minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power,
and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair
renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from

whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
* * * * *

MY COUNTRY.
There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the
world beside, Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder
moons imparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner,
whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a
purer air. In every clime, the magnet of his soul, Touched by
remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's
peculiar race, The heritage of nature's noblest grace, There is a spot of
earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where
man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and
pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the
husband, brother, friend. Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter,
wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life: In the clear
heaven of her delightful eye An angel-guard of love and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol
at her feet. "Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?" Art
thou a man?--a patriot?--look around; O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy
footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home!
Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every
varying clime, Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by
Heaven o'er the world beside; His home the spot of earth supremely
blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
* * * * *

FATHER AND MOTHER TONGUE.
Our Father Land! and wouldst thou know Why we should call it Father
Land? It is that Adam here below Was made of earth by Nature's hand;
And he our father, made of earth, Hath peopled earth on every hand;
And we, in memory of his birth, Do call our country Father Land.

At first, in Eden's bowers, they say, No sound of speech had Adam
caught, But whistled like a bird all day,-- And maybe 'twas for want of
thought: But Nature, with resistless laws, Made Adam soon surpass the
birds; She gave him lovely Eve because If he'd a wife they must have
words.
And so the native land, I hold, By male descent is proudly mine; The
language, as the tale hath told, Was given in the female line. And thus
we see on either hand We name our blessings whence they've sprung;
We call our country Father Land, We call our language Mother
Tongue.
SAMUEL LOVER.
* * * * *

EAST, WEST, HOME'S BEST.
FROM "THE TRAVELLER."
As some lone miser visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts,
recounts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he
sighs, for hoards are wanting still: Thus to my breast alternate passions
rise, Pleased with each good that heaven to man supplies: Yet oft a sigh
prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the sum of human bliss so small; And
oft I wish, amidst the scene to find Some spot to real happiness
consigned, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May
gather bliss to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot
below, Who can direct, when all pretend