BREATHES THERE THE MAN BREATHES there the 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 burned, As 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 down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

MY COUNTRY.

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by 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 bountiful 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:

Though Heaven alone records the tear, And Fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear

As e'er bedewed the field of glory!

II.

The wife who girds her husband's sword, Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word,

What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear

The bolts of death around him rattle, Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

III.

The mother who conceals her grief

While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor! THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS.

A host glared on the hill; a host glared by the bay; But the Greeks rushed onward still, like leopards in their play.

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame, Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans came;

And still the Greek rushed on where the fiery torrent rolled,

Till like a rising sun shone Xerxes' tent of gold.

They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet, there ;

And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric spear.

Then sat to the repast the bravest of the brave! That feast must be their last, that spot must be their grave.

Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup poured high,

Then hand in hand they drank, "To immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb,

With shout and trumpet knell, he saw the warriors come.

But down swept all his power, with chariot and with charge;

Spartan targe.

again!

And now hath every city

Sent up her tale of men ; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium

Is met the great array; A proud man was Lais Porsena Upon the trysting-day.

Now, from the rock Tarpeian,
Could the wan burghers spy
The line of blazing villages
Red in the midnight sky.
The fathers of the city,

They sat all night and day,
For every hour some horseman came
With tidings of dismay.

I wis, in all the senate

There was no heart so bold
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,
When that ill news was told.
Forthwith up rose the consul,
Up rose the fathers all;

In haste they girded up their gowns,
And hied them to the wall.

They held a council, standing Before the river-gate;

Short time was there, ye well may guess,
For musing or debate.
Outspake the consul roundly:

"The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Naught else can save the town.”

Just then a scout came flying,

All wild with haste and fear:
"To arms! to arms! sir consul, -
Lars Porsena is here."
On the low hills to westward
The consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust
Rise fast along the sky.

But the consul's brow was sad,

And the consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe: "Their van will be upon us

Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?"

Then outspake brave Horatius,
The captain of the gate :
"To every man upon this carth
Death cometh soon or late.

With shield and blade Horatius

Right deftly turned the blow.

The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;

It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh.

The Tuscans raised a joyful cry

To see the red blood flow.

He reeled, and on Herminius

He leaned one breathing-space,

Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds,
Sprang right at Astur's face.
Through teeth and skull and helmet

So fierce a thrust he sped,

The good sword stood a handbreadth out Behind the Tuscan's head.

And the great lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Avernus
A thunder-smitten oak.
Far o'er the crashing forest

The giant arms lie spread;
End the pale augurs, muttering low,
Gaze on the blasted head.

On Astur's throat Horatius
Right firmly pressed his heel,

And thrice and four times tugged amain,
Ere he wrenched out the steel.
"And see," he cried, "the welcome,
Fair guests, that waits you here!
What noble Lucumo comes next
To taste our Roman cheer?"

But at his haughty challenge

A sullen murmur ran,

Mingled with wrath and shame and dread,

Along that glittering van.

There lacked not men of prowess,

Nor men of lordly race,

For all Etruria's noblest

Were round the fatal place.

But all Etruria's noblest

Felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,
In the path the dauntless three ;
And from the ghastly entrance,

Where those bold Romans stood,
All shrank,-like boys who, unaware,
Ranging a wood to start a hare,
Come to the mouth of the dark lair
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear
Lies amidst bones and blood.

Was none who would be foremost
To lead such dire attack;
But those behind cried "Forward!"
And those before cried "Back!"