Land Of My Sires! What

Ridicule Often Checks What Is Absurd, And Fully As Often Smothers That Which Is Noble.

Here Eglantine Embalm'd The Air, Hawthorne And Hazel Mingled There; The Primrose Pale, And Violet Flower, Found In Each Cliff A Narrow Bower; Fox-glove And Nightshade, Side By Side, Emblems Of Punishment And Pride, Group'd Their Dark Hues With Every Stain The Weather-beaten Crags Retain.

We Shall Never Learn To Feel And Respect Our Real Calling And Destiny, Unless We Have Taught Ourselves To Consider Every Thing As Moonshine, Compared With The Education Of The Heart.

We Often Praise The Evening Clouds, And Tints So Gay And Bold, But Seldom Think Upon Our God, Who Tinged These Clouds With Gold.

Here Is Neither Want Of Appetite Nor Mouths, Pray Heaven We Be Not Scant Of Meat Or Mirth.