. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. Love of Country From The Lay of the Last Minstrel Sir Walter Scott (Bom August 15, 1771; Died September 21,1832) Breathes there the man with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said: This is my own, my native land?Whose heart hath neer within him burnedAs home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering 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
. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. Love of Country From The Lay of the Last Minstrel Sir Walter Scott (Bom August 15, 1771; Died September 21,1832) Breathes there the man with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said: This is my own, my native land?Whose heart hath neer within him burnedAs home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering 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 downTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. Page One Hundred and Ten )it£ ^Inttitxtb ztnit <§nt ^nmtxxxs ^ms. Nobility Alice Cary (Bom April 26, 1820; Died February ) True worth is in being, not seeming,— In doing, each day that goes by,Some little good—not in dreaming Of great things to do by and whatever men say in their blindness, And spite of the fancies of youth,Theres nothing so kingly as kindness, And nothing so royal as truth. We get back our mete as we measure— We cannot do wrong and feel right,Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure, For justice avenges each air for the wing of the sparrow, The bush for the robin and wren,But always the path that is narrow And straight, for the children of men. Tis not in the pages of story The heart of its ills to beguile,Though he who makes courtship to glory Gives all that he hath for her when from her heights he has won her, Alas! it is only to proveThat nothings so sacred as honor, And nothing so loyal as love! We cannot make bargains for blisses, Nor catch them like fishes in nets;And sometimes the thing
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