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"Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?!"
Art thou a man?-a patriot ?-look around;
O thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy Country, and that spot thy Home.
Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

MONTGOMERY.

BRITAIN,

ALBION! O my mother isle!
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers
Glitter green with sunny showers;

Thy grassy uplands, gentle swells,
Echo to the bleat of flocks;

(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells,

Proudly ramparted with rocks);
And ocean, 'mid his uproar wild,
Speaks safely to his Island-child.

COLERIDGE,

BRITAIN.

EAUTEOUS Isle,

And plenteous! what though in thy atmosphere
Float not the taintless luxury of light,

The dazzling azure of the southern skies;
Around thee the rich orb of thy renown

Spread stainless, and unsullied by a cloud.
Though thy hills blush not with the purple vine,
And softer climes excel thee in the hue

And fragrance of thy summer fruits and flowers,
Nor flow thy rivers over golden beds;

Thou in the Soul of man, thy better wealth,
Art richest nature's noblest produce thou,
The immortal Mind in perfect height and strength,
Bear'st with lavish opulence; this thy right,
Thy privilege of climate and of soil.

MILMAN.

BRITAIN.

OR do I aught of earthly sort remember,-
If partial feeling to my native place

Lead not my lyre astray,—of fairer view,

And comelier walk, than the blue mountain paths
And snowy cliffs of Albion renowned ;

Albion, an isle long blest with gracious laws,
And gracious kings, and favoured much of Heaven,
Though yielding oft penurious gratitude.
Nor do I of that isle remember aught
Of prospect more sublime and beautiful,
Than Scotia's northern battlement of hills,
Which first I from my father's house beheld
At dawn of life: beloved in memory still,
And standard still of rural imagery.

What most resembles them, the fairest seems,
And stirs the eldest sentiments of bliss;
And, pictured on the tablet of my heart,
Their distant shapes eternally remain,
And in my dreams their cloudy tops arise.

POLLOK

BRITAIN.

LOVE thee, O my native Isle!
Dear as my mother's earliest smile.
Sweet as my father's voice to me

Is all I hear, and all I see;

When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy public virtues stand,
The guardian angels of thy coast,
To watch the dear domestic host,
The heart's affections, pleased to roam
Around the quiet heaven of home.
I love thee when I mark thy soil
Flourish beneath the peasants' toil,
And from its lap of verdure throw
Treasures which neither Indies know.
I love thee,-when I hear around
Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound,
Thine engines heaving all their force,
Thy waters labouring on their course,
And arts, and industry, and wealth,
Exulting in the joys of health.

I love thee, when I trace thy tale
To the dim point where records fail;
Thy deeds of old renown inspire
My bosom with our fathers' fire:
A proud inheritance I claim

In all their sufferings, all their fame;
Nor less delighted when I stray

Down history's lengthening, widening way,
And hail thee in thy present hour,
From the meridian arch of power,
Shedding the lustre of thy reign,
Like sunshine over land and main,
I love thee,-when I read the lays
Of British bards, in elder days,
Till, wrapt on visionary wings,
High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings;
For I, amidst thy living choir,

I too, can touch the sacred lyre.

I love thee,—when thy Sabbath dawns

O'er woods and mountains, dales, and lawns,

And streams that sparkle while they run,

As if their fountains were the sun:

When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair,
Each to their chosen house of prayer,
And all in peace and freedom call
On him, who is the Lord of all.

MONTGOMERY.

BRITAIN.

Y heart has sighed in secret, when I thought
That the dark tide of time might one day close,
England, o'er thee!—as long since it has closed

On Egypt and on Tyre: that ages hence,
From the Pacific's billowy loneliness,

Whose tract thy daring search revealed, some isle
Might rise in green-haired beauty eminent,
And, like a goddess, glittering from the deep,
Hereafter sway the sceptre of domain
From pole to pole; and such as now thou art,
Perhaps New Holland be, for who shall say
What the Omnipotent, Eternal One

That made the world hath purposed? Thoughts like these,
Though visionary, rise; and sometimes move

A moment's sadness, when I think of thee,
My country, of thy greatness, and thy name,
Among the nations: and thy character
(Though some few spots be on thy flowing robe),
Of loveliest beauty. I have never passed
Through thy green hamlets on a summer's morn,
Or heard thy sweet bells ring, or seen the youths
And smiling maidens of the villagery,

Gay in their Sunday tire, but I have said,

With passing tenderness, “Live, happy land,

Where the poor peasant feels his shed, though small,
An independence and a pride, that fill

His honest heart with joy-joy such as they
Who crowd the mart of men may never feel."
Such, England, is thy boast; when I have heard

The roar of oceans bursting round thy rocks,
Or seen a thousand thronging masts aspire
Far as the eye could reach, from every port
Of every nation, streaming with their flags,
O'er the still mirror of the conscious Thames,—
Yes, I have felt a proud emotion swell,
That I was British-born; that I had lived
A witness of thy glory, my most loved
And honoured country; and silent prayer

Would rise to heaven, that fame, and peace, and love,
And liberty, would walk thy vales, and sing

Their holy hymns; whilst thy brave arm repelled
Hostility, even as thy guardian rocks

Repel the dash of ocean.

BOWLES.

BRITAIN.

EAVENS! what a goodly prospect spreads around,
Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires
And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all
The stretching landscape into smoke decays!
Happy Britannia! where the Queen of Arts,
Inspiring vigour, Liberty abroad

Walks, unconfined, e'en to thy furthest cots,
And scatters plenty with unsparing hand.
Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime;
Thy streams unfailing in the Summer's drought
Unmatched thy guardian oaks; thy valleys float
With golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks
Bleat numberless; while, roving round their sides,
Bellow the blackening herds, in lusty droves.
Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unquelled
Against the mower's scythe. On every hand
Thy villas shine. Thy country teems with wealth;
And property assures it to the swain,

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