This was the noblest Roman of them all:
All the conspirators, save only he,
Did that they did in envy of great Cæsar;
He, only, in a general honest thought,
And common good to all, made one of them.
Shaks. Julius Cæsar.
I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!
A foc to tyrants, and my country's friend,
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
'Thy God's, and truth's, then if thou fall'st, O
Cromwell!
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.
Shaks. Henry VIII.
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king.
Remains unshaken. Rising he displays
His god-like presence. Dignity and grace
Adorn his frame, and manly beauty join'd
With strength Herculean. On his aspect shines
Sublimest virtue, and desire of fame,
Shaks. Julius Cæsar. Where justice gives the laurel; in his eye
Judge me not ungentle,
Of manners rude, and insolent of speech,
If, when the public safety is in question,
My zeal flows warm and eager from my tongue.
Rowe's Jane Shore.
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty and Rome:
His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head:
Oppression, tyranny, and power usurped,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.
Addison's Cato.
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure heaven itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
The inextinguishable spark, which fires
The soul of patriots; while his brow supports
Undaunted valour, and contempt of death.
Serene he rose, and thus address'd the throng.
Glover's Leonidas
In a just cause, and for our country's glory,
Is the best office of the best of men;
And to decline when these motives urge,
Is infamy beneath a coward's baseness.
Havard's Regulus
Our country's welfare is our first concern,
And who promotes that best, best proves his duty.
Havard's Regulus.
What constitutes a state?
Not high-rais'd battlement or labour'd mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown'd;
Not bays and broad-arm'd ports,
Pope. Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starr'd and spangled courts,
Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride.
No:-Men, high-minded Men,
Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
Who gained no title, and who lost no friend:
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,
Praised, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd.
Pope.
While in the radiant front, superior shines
'That first paternal virtue, public zeal;
Who throws o'er all an equal wide survey,
And, ever musing on the common weal,
Sti" labours glorious with some great design.
for sell for gold what gold could never buy; The peaceful slumber, self-approving day, Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay.
Dr. Johnson's London.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod,
Than fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung,
There honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge or death- the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!
Campbell's Pleasures of Hope.
Hope for a season bade the world farewell,
And freedom shriek'd, as Kosciusko fell!
Campbell's Pleasures of Hope.
He who maintains his country's laws
Alone is great; or he who dies in the good cause
Sir A. Hunt
Far he fled - indignant fled,
The pageant of his country's shame;
While every tear her children shed
Collins. Fell on his soul, like drops of flame;
And as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcom'd he
Cowper's Task. The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty!
Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
But the age of virtuous politics is past,
And we are deep in that of cold pretence.
Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,
And we too wise to trust them.
Moore's Lalla Rookh
'Tis come, his hour of martyrdom
In freedom's sacred cause is come;
And, though his life hath pass'd away
Like lightning on a stormy day,
Yet shall his death-hour leave a track
Of glory, permanent and bright,
To which the brave of after-times,
The suffering brave, shall long look back
With proud regret, - and by its light
Watch through the hours of slavery's night,
For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes.
Moore's Lalla Rookh.
The sword may pierce the bearer,
Stone walls in time may sever:
'Tis heart alone,
When cold and low they lie
Their loveliest mother earth
Enshrines the fallen brave;
In her sweet lap who gave them birth,
They find their tranquil grave.
Montgomery's Wanderer of Switzerland.
In that dread hour my country's guard I stood,
From the state's vitals tore the coiled serpent,
First hung with writhing up to public scorn,
Then flung him forth to ruin.
Maturin's Bertram.
O heaven, he cried, my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live! with her to die!
Campbell's Pleasures of Hope.
In a great cause: the block may soak their gore:
Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs
Be strung to city gates and castle walls-
But still their spirit walks abroad. Tho' years
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom,
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts
Which overpower all others, and conduct
The world at last to freedom.
Our country! 't is a glorious land!
With broad arms stretch'd from shore to shore,
Byron's Doge of Venice. The proud Pacific chafes her strand,
Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires, And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear, That tyranny shall quake to hear.
She hears the dark Atlantic roar; And nurtur'd on her ample breast,
How many a goodly prospect lies In Nature's wildest grandeur drest, Enamell'd with the loveliest dyes.
And here and there some stern, high patriot stood, Great God! we thank thee for this home-
Who could not get the place for which he sued.
This bounteous birthland of the free; Where wanderers from afar may come, And breathe the air of liberty!Still may her flowers untrampled spring, Her harvests wave, her cities rise; And yet, till Time shall fold his wing, Remain Earth's loveliest Paradise!
William Jewett Pabodie. Pride in the gift of country and of name
Speaks in the eye and step –
In their own language, and will mould
Thy growing spirit in the flame
He treads his native Land!
A change but in their growth, which a long peace Hath brought unto perfection, are like steel, Which, being neglected, will consume itself Shaks. Henry V. With its own rust: so doth security
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility.
A peace is of the nature of a conquest;
For then both parties nobly are subdued,
And neither party loser.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part II.
In her days, every man shall eat in safety,
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry song of peace to all his neighbours.
Shaks. Henry VIII.
Ay; but give me worship and quietness,
I like it better than a dangerous honour.
Shaks. Henry VI. Part III.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meeting,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war has smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,—
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
Eat through the hearts of states, while they're sleeping
And lull'd in her false quiet.
Oh, peace! thou source and soul of social life:
Beneath whose calm inspiring influence,
Science his views enlarges, art refines,
And swelling commerce opens all her ports;
Blest be the man divine, who gives us thee!
Thomson's Britannia.
Oh first of human blessings! and supreme!
Fair peace! how lovely, how delightful thou!
By whose wide tie, the kindred sons of men
Live brothers like, in amity combin'd,
And unsuspicious faith; while honest toil
Gives every joy, and to those joys a right,
Which idle, barbarous rapine but usurps.
Thomson's Britannia. Sweet peace, who long hath shunn'd my plaintive lay,
Consents, at length, to bring me short delight. Collins.
Provokes to arms, or trumpet's clangour shrill Affrights the wives, or chills the virgin's blood; But joy and pleasure open to the view
And fat of peace, your young men ne'er were Uninterrupted!
The goodness of the heart is shown in deeds
Of peacefulness and kindness. Hand and heart
Are one thing with the good, as thou should'st bu.
Do my words trouble thee? then treasure them,
Pain overgot gives peace, as death doth Heaven.
All things that speak of Heaven speak of peace,
Bailey's Festus.
O, these were hours when thrilling joy repaid
A long, long course of darkness, doubts, and fears!
The heart-sick faintness of the hope delay'd,
The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and the tears,
That track'd with terror twenty rolling years,
All was forgot in that blithe Jubilee;
Her downcast eye even pale affliction rears,
To sigh a thankful prayer amid the glee
That hail'd the despot's fall, and peace and liberty!
Scott's Lord of the Isles.
What is peace?—when pain is over
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover
That precedes the passing knell.
Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,
And as a brother kindly greet.
O then that wisdom may we know,
Which yields a life of peace below!
Peace seem'd to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
Was for a moment consol'd. All sounds were in harmony blended.
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yard,
Whirr of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
Look'd with eye of peace through the golden va
pours around him.
Longfellow's Evangeline
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say-
"Peace!"
Longfellow's Poems.
Who reads aright the image on his soul,
And gives it nurture like a child of light.
His life is calm and blessed, for his peace,
Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken,
Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure,
Burns. For the soul's errands are not done with men;
His senses are subdued and serve the soul.
Charles Sprague. Speak gently! He who gave his life
To bend man's stubborn will,
When elements were fierce with strife,
Said to them, "Peace, be still!"'
God of Peace!-whose Spirit fills
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills,
Now the storm is o'er ;-
O, let freemen be our sons;
And let future WASHINGTONS
Rise to lead their valiant ones,
Till there's war no more.
O! never yet did peace her chaplet twine
To lay upon base mammon's sordid shrine,
Where earth's most precious things are bought
and sold;
Thrown on that pile, the pearl of price would be
Despis'd, because unfit for merchantry.
Mrs. Embury.
Peace, sweet peace is ever found
In her eternal home on holy ground.
Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place,
His little son into his bosom creeps,
The lively picture of his father's face:
Never his humble house nor state torment him;
Less he could like, if less his God had sent him!
And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb,
content him.
Phineas Fletcher
He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went for want of thought.
Dryden's Cymon and Iphigenia
His corn and cattle were his only care,
And his supreme delight, a country fair.
Dryden's Cymon and Iphigenia.
Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short reposc,
Were half the wealth bestow'd on camps and Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes.
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals and forts!
Longfellow's Poems.
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed.
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