Love of Country. SIR WALTER SCOTT. REATHES there the man, with soul so dead, This is my own, my native land! From wandering on a foreign strand!- To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, That knits me to thy rugged strand! The World's Way. SHAKESPEARE. IRED with all these, for restful death I cry- And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And captive Good attending captain Ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone. |