The Worlds Best Poetry, Volume 8 | Page 7

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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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 to know? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease; The naked negro, planting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which