_Bermudas_

Where the remote Bermudas ride, In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat, that rowed along, The listening winds received this song:

"What should we do but sing His praise, That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own?

Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs; He lands us on a gra.s.sy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.

He gave us this eternal spring, Which here enamels every thing, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air; He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows; He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice; With cedars chosen by His hand, From Lebanon, He stores the land, And makes the hollow seas, that roar, Proclaim the ambergris on sh.o.r.e; He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast, And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name.

Oh! let our voice His praise exalt, Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."

Thus sung they, in the English boat, An holy and a cheerful note; And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

ANDREW MARVELL.

_Where Lies the Land?_

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face; Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go.

On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

INTERLEAVES

_For Home and Country_

_"Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam?

His first, best country ever is at home."_

This is the proud claim of Goldsmith's "Traveller," and the same pa.s.sionate loyalty to the soil inspires all these poems of Fatherland.

The Scotsman's heart is in the Highlands, the birthplace of valor, the country of worth; the English warrior boasts of his country:

_"And o'er one-sixth of all the earth, and over all the main, Like some good Fairy, Freedom marks and blesses her domain;"_

the Irish Minstrel-boy tears the chords of his faithful harp asunder lest they sound in the service of the foe, while the quick, alarming Yankee drum in Bret Harte's "Reveille" calls upon each freeman to defend the land of the pilgrim's pride, land where his fathers died.

Religion, war, and glory were the three souls of a perfect Christian knight, says Lamartine, and if Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, summon us to the field,

_"Our business is like men to fight And hero-like to die."_

In Kipling's "Recessional" and Lowell's "Fatherland" we hear a note as valiant, but more spiritual. The one makes us remember that

_"The tumult and the shouting dies-- The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart."_

The other leads us to still higher levels of thought, reminding us that wherever a single soul doth pine, or one man may help another, that spot of earth is thine and mine--that is the world-wide fatherland.

X

FOR HOME AND COUNTRY

_The First, Best Country_

But where to find the happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know?

The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease; The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his G.o.ds for all the goods they gave.

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country ever is at home.

And yet perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind; As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

_From "The Traveller."_

_My Native Land_

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's raptures swell.

High though his t.i.tles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,-- Despite those t.i.tles, 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.

_From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."_

_Loyalty_

Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; _Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,_ _O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!_

The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.