LITMIR.BIZ

      It is not growing like a tree

      In bulk doth make man better be,

      Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

      To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.

      A lily of a day

      Is fairer far in May,

      Although it fall and die that night;

      It was the plant and flower of light!

      In small proportions we just beauties see,

      And in short measures life may perfect be.

      Breathes there a man with soul so dead,

      Who never to himself hath said,

      This is my own, my native land!

      Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,

      As home his footsteps he hath turn’d

      From wand’ring 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, unhonor’d, and unsung.

      There is a land, of every land the pride,

      Beloved of 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 beautiful 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

      The 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;

      Oh, thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam,

      That land thy country, and that spot thy home.

      What’s brave, what’s noble, let’s do it.

      Where is the true man’s fatherland?

      Is it where he by chance is born?

      Doth not the yearning spirit scorn

      In such scant borders to be spanned?

      O yes! his fatherland must be

      As the blue heaven wide and free!

      Is it alone where freedom is,

      Where God is God, and man is man?

      Doth he not claim a broader span

      For the soul’s love of home than this?

      O yes! his fatherland must be

      As the blue heaven wide and free!

      Where’er a human heart doth wear

      Joy’s myrtle-wreath or sorrow’s gyves,

      Where’er a human spirit strives

      After a life more true and fair —

      There is the true man’s birthplace grand;

      His is a world-wide fatherland!

      Where’er a single slave doth pine,

      Where’er one man may help another —

      Thank God for such a birthright, brother —

      That spot of earth is thine and mine!

      There is the true man’s birthplace grand;

      His is a world-wide fatherland!