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!