Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful eye,
Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy;
The peaceful slumber, self-approving day,
Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay.

Dr. Johnson's London.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod,
Than fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung,
There honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge or death-the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!

Campbell's Pleasures of Hope

Hope for a season bade the world farewell,
And freedom shriek'd, as Kosciusko fell!

Campbell's Pleasures of Hope

He who maintains his country's laws
Alone is great; or he who dies in the good cause
Sir A. Hunt

Far he fled-indignant fled,
The pageant of his country's shame;
While every tear her children shed
Collins. Fell on his soul, like drops of flame;
And as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcom'd he
Cowper's Task. The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty!

Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.

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.

Enshrines the fallen brave;

In her sweet lap who gave them birth,
They find their tranquil grave.

Cowper.

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.

Moore's Lalla Rookh
'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,

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. Gaungher

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 a name of fear,
That tyranny shall quake to hear.

Byron's Giaour.

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 Pobodie

And here and there some stern, high patriot stood, Great God! we thank thee for this home
Who could not get the place for which he sued.

There was something

In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up,
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms,
But proudly still bestriding the high waves,
And holding on her course.

I will teach thine infant tongue

To call upon those heroes old

In their own language, and will mould

Thy growing spirit in the flame

Of Grecian lore; that by each name

A patriot's birth-right thou may'st claim.

Then none was for a party;

Then all were for the state;

Then the great man help'd the poor,
And the poor man lov'd the great;
Then lands were fairly portion'd;
Then spoils were fairly sold;
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.

Byron.

Byron.

Shelley.

Macauley's Horatius.

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!

A change but in their growth, which a long penci Hath brought unto perfection, are like steel, Which, being neglected, will consume itself Shaks. Henry V. With its own rust: so doth security

And fat of peace, your young men ne'er were Uninterrupted!

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,

and the great sun

Charles Sprague. Speak gently! He who gave his life
To bend man's stubborn will,

God of Peace!-whose Spirit fals
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills.
Now the storm is o'er ;-

O, let freemen be our sons;

And let future WASHINGTONS

Rise to lead their valiant ones,

Till there's war no more.

John Pierpont.

O! never yet did peace her chaplet twine
To lay upon base mammon's sordid shrine,
Where earth's most precious things are bought

and sold;
Thrown on that pile, the pearl of price would be
Despis d, because unfit for merchantry.

Mrs. Embury
Peace, sweet peace is ever found
In her eternal home on holy ground.
Mrs. Embury.
Were half the power that fills the world with
terror,

When elements were fierce with strife,

Said to them, "Peace, be still!”

PEASANT.

David Bates

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!
And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb,
content him.
Phineas Fletcher
He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went for want of thought.
Dryden's Cymon and Iphigenis
His corn and cattle were his only care,
And his supreme delight, a country fair.

Dryden's Cymon and Iphigenia
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.

courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals and forts!
Longfellow's Poems.

Goldsmith's Traveller