Of manners rude, and insolent of speech,
If, when the public safety is in question,
My zeal flows warm and eager from my tongue.
Rowe's Jane Shore.
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty and Rome:
His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head:
Oppression, tyranny, and power usurped,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.
Addison's Cato.
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure heaven itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
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In a just cause, and for our country's glory,
Is the best office of the best of men;
And to decline when these motives urge,
Is infamy beneath a coward's baseness.
Havard's Regulus
Our country's welfare is our first concern,
And who promotes that best, best proves his duty.
Havard's Regulus
What constitutes a state?
Not high-rais'd battlement or labour'd mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown'd;
Not bays and broad-arm'd ports,
Pope. Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
Who gained no title, and who lost no friend:
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,
Praised, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd.
Pope.
While in the radiant front, superior shines
That first paternal virtue, public zeal;
Who throws o'er all an equal wide survey,
And, ever musing on the common weal,
Sti" labours glorious with some great design.
But the age of virtuous politics is past,
And we are deep in that of cold pretence.
Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,
And we too wise to trust them.
'Tis come, - his hour of martyrdom
In freedom's sacred cause is come;
And, though his life hath pass'd away
Like lightning on a stormy day,
Yet shall his death-hour leave a track
Of glory, permanent and bright,
To which the brave of after-times,
The suffering brave, shall long look back
With proud regret, and by its light
Watch through the hours of slavery's night,
For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes.
Moore's Lalla Rookh
The sword may pierce the bearer,
Stone walls in time may sever:
"Tis heart alone,
When cold and low they lie
Their loveliest mother earth
Enshrines the fallen brave;
In her sweet lap who gave them birth,
They find their tranquil grave.
Montgomery's Wanderer of Switzerland. In that dread hour my country's guard I stood, From the state's vitals tore the coiled serpent, First hung with writhing up to public scorn, Then flung him forth to ruin.
Maturin's Bertram. O heaven, he cried, my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live! with her to die! Campbell's Pleasures of Hope.
Calendaro. But if we fail
Bertuccio. They never fail who die
In a great cause: the block may soak their gore:
Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs
Be strung to city gates and castle walls-
But still their spirit walks abroad. Tho' years
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom,
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts
Which overpower all others, and conduct
The world at last to freedom.
'Tis home-felt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh,
This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
Campbell
Land of the West-beneath the Heaven
There's not a fairer, lovelier clime;
Nor one to which was ever given
A destiny more high, sublime.
W. D. Gallagher.
Our country!-'t is a glorious land!
With broad arms stretch'd from shore to shore,
Byron's Doge of Venice. The proud Pacific chafes her strand,
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires,
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs 4 name of fear,
That tyranny shall quake to hear.
She hears the dark Atlantic roar;
And nurtur'd on her ample breast,
How many a goodly prospect lies
In Nature's wildest grandeur drest,
Enamell'd with the loveliest dyes.
William Jewett Pabodie
And here and there some stern, high patriot stood, Great God! we thank thee for this homeWho could not get the place for which he sued.
This bounteous birthland of the free;
Where wanderers from afar may come,
And breathe the air of liberty!-
Still may her flowers untrampled spring,
Her harvests wave, her cities rise;
And yet, till Time shall fold his wing,
Remain Earth's loveliest Paradise!
William Jewett Pabodie
Pride in the gift of country and of name
Speaks in the eye and step
He treads his native Land!
A change but in their growth, which a long peace Hath brought unto perfection, are like steel, Which, being neglected, will consume itself Shaks. Henry V. With its own rust: so doth security
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility.
A peace is of the nature of a conquest;
For then both parties nobly are subdued,
And neither party loser.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part II.
In her days, every man shall eat in safety,
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry song of peace to all his neighbours.
Shaks. Henry VIII.
Ay; but give me worship and quietness,
I like it better than a dangerous honour.
Shaks. Henry VI. Part III.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meeting,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war has smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,―
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
Eat through the hearts of states, while they 're sleeping
And lull'd in her false quiet.
Oh, peace! thou source and soul of social life:
Beneath whose calm inspiring influence,
Science his views enlarges, art refines,
And swelling commerce opens all her ports;
Blest be the man divine, who gives us thee!
Thomson's Britannië.
Oh first of human blessings! and supreme!
Fair peace! how lovely, how delightful thou!
By whose wide tie, the kindred sons of men
Live brothers like, in amity combin'd,
And unsuspicious faith; while honest toil
Gives every joy, and to those joys a right,
Which idle, barbarous rapine but usurps.
O, these were hours when thrilling joy repaid
A long, long course of darkness, doubts, and fears!
The heart-sick faintness of the hope delay'd,
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yard,
Whirr of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and the tears, All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love,
That track'd with terror twenty rolling years,
All was forgot in that blithe Jubilee;
Her downcast eye even pale affliction rears,
To sigh a thankful prayer amid the glee
That hail'd the despot's fall, and peace and liberty!
Scott's Lord of the Isles.
What is peace? when pain is over
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover That precedes the passing knell.
Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,
And as a brother kindly greet.
O then that wisdom may we know, Which yields a life of peace below!
Charles Sprague. Speak gently!
He who gave his life To bend man's stubborn will, When elements were fierce with strife, Said to them, "Peace, be still!"
His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place;
His little son into his bosom creeps,
The lively picture of his father's face:
Never his humble house nor state torment him;
Less he could like, if less his God had sent him!
tomb,
And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy
Phineas Fletcher
He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went for want of thought.
Dryden's Cymon and Iphigenit
His corn and cattle were his only care,
And his supreme delight, a country fair.
Dryden's Cymon and Iphigens.
Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Were half the wealth bestow'd on camps and Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes.
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed.
Goldsmith's Traveller
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