And thou, my Country, thou shalt never fall
But with thy children.

For they are strong supporters; but, till then, The greatest are but growing gentlemen. Bryant's Poems. It is a wretched thing to trust to reeds,

There is no other land like thee,

No dearer shore;

Thou art the shelter of the free,
The home, the port of liberty,

Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,
Till time is o'er.

Ere I forget to think upon

My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore.

Land of the forest and the rock,

Percival's Poems.

Of dark blue lake and mighty river,
Of mountains reared on high to mock
The storm's carcer and lightning's shock,
My own green Land for ever!
Oh! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering feet incline,
Forget the sky that bent above

His childhood like a dream of love!

I see the living tide roll on,

It crowns with fiery towers

The icy capes of Labrador,

The Spaniard's "land of flowers!"
It streams beyond the splintered ridge
That parts the northern showers,
From eastern rock to sunset wave,
The Continent is ours.

Whittier.

I have no urns, no dusty monuments;
No broken images of ancestors,
Wanting an ear, or nose; no forged tables
Of long descents, to boast false honours from.
Jonson's Catiline

'Tis poor and not becoming perfect gentry,
To build their glories at their fathers' cost;
But at their own expense of blood or virtue,
To raise them living monuments; our birth
Is not our own act; honour upon trust,
Our ill deeds forfeit; and the wealthy sums,
Purchas'd by others' fame or sweat, will be
Our stain, for we inherit nothing truly
But what our actions make us worthy of

Chapman and Shirley's Ball.

It is, indeed, a blessing, when the virtues
Of noble races are hereditary:
And do derive themselves from th' imitation

O. W. Holmes. Of virtuous ancestors.

America! the sound is like a sword
To smite th' oppressor! like a loving word
To cheer the suffering people, while they pray
That God would hasten on the promised day,
When earth shall be like heaven, and men shall
stand,

Like brothers round an altar, hand in hand.
O! ever thus, America, be strong,-

Nabb's Covent Garden.

He that to ancient wreaths can bring no more
From his own worth, dies bankrupt on the score.
John Cleveland.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.
Young,

He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet,

Like cataract's thunder pour the Freeman's song, By heraldry proved valiant or discreet!

Till struggling Europe joins the grand refrain;
And startled Asia bursts the despot's chain;
And Afric's manumitted sons, from thee
To their own Father-land shall bear the song,
-Worth all their toils and tears-of Liberty:
For these good deeds, America, be strong!

ANCESTRY.

Mrs. Hale.

Boast not these titles of your ancestors,

Whence his name

Young.

And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
Suffice it that, perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day.

Byron's Childe Harold.
I am one,

Who finds within me a nobility
That spurns the idle pratings of the great,
And their mean boast of what their fathers were,

Brave youths; they 're their possessions, none of While they themselves are fools effeminate,

yours;

When your own virtues, equal'd have their names,
Twill be but fair to lean upon their fames;

Thus they in heaven, above the starry sphere,
Their happy hours in joy and hymning spent.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Angels, contented with their fame in heaven,
Seek not the praise of men.

Madness and anger differ but in this,
This is short madness, that long anger is.

Charles Aleyn's Crescey. Where there's

Power to punish, 'tis tyranny to rage;

Anger is no attribute of justice;

'Tis true she's painted with a sword, but looks

Milton's Paradise Lost. As if she held it not; though war be in
Her hand, yet peace dwells in her face.

Are ye for ever to your skies departed?
Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more?

Ye whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted
Through Eden's fresh and flowery shades of
yore?
Mrs. Hemans.

White-wing'd angels meet the child

On the vestibule of life.

Mrs. E. Oakes Smith.

Times of joy and times of woe,
Each an angel-presence know.

Mrs. E. Oakes Smith.

Henry Killegrew's Conspiracy.
If I stay, my rage

Will hurry me to mischief, better leave her
To certain ruin, than betray myself
To danger of it.

Clapthorne's Hollander.

The winds,

Imprison'd in the caverns of the earth,
Break out in hideous earthquakes; passions so
Increase by opposition of all scorns.

Clapthorne's Hollander.

Anger

ANGER.

Full many mischiefs follow cruel wrath:
Abhorred bloodshed, and tumultuous strife,
Unmanly murder, and unthrifty scath,
Bitter despite, with rancour's rusty knife,
And fretting grief, the enemy of life;
All these, and many evils more, haunt ire.
The sweelling spleen, and phrenzy raging rife,
The shaking palsy, and saint Francis fire:
Such one was wrath, the last of this ungodly tire.
Spenser's Fairy Queen.

There is not in nature,

Is blood, pour'd and perplex'd into a froth;
But malice is the wisdom of our wrath.

Sir W. Davenant's Just Italian.

In mighty souls, passions, not soon suppress'd,
Like wounded whales, do struggle till they die;
By their impatience they increase the smart,
Provoke their pains, and vex a harmless dart;
Tossing the mighty mass till they're on ground,
Their rage more fatal than the little wound.
Sir Francis Fane's Sacrifice.
At this the knight grew high in wrath,
And lifting hands and eyes up both,
Three times he smote on stomach stout,

A thing that makes a man so deform'd, so beastly, From whence at length these words broke out.
As doth intemp'rate anger.

Webster's Dutchess of Malfi.

Butler's Hudibras.

Anger is like

Your more manly soul I find A full hot horse, who being allow'd his way,

Is capable of wrong, and like a flint
Throws forth a fire unto the striker's eyes.
You bear about you valour's whetstone, anger:
Which sets an edge upon the sword, and makes it
Cut with a spirit; you conceive fond patience
Is an injustice to ourselves; the suff'ring
One injury invites a second, that
Calls on a third, till wrongs do multiply
And reputation bleed.

Thomas Randolph's Muse's Looking-Glass.
My cage is not malicious; like a spark
Of fire by steel inforced out of a flint,
I is no sooner kind!ed, but extinct.

Goffe's Careless Shepherdess.

Self-mettle tires him.

Shaks. Henry VIII

Now, by the ground that I am banish'd from,
Well could I curse away a winter's night,
Though standing naked on a mountain top,
Where biting cold would never let grass grow.
Shaks. Henry VI.

Give him no breath, but now
Make boot of his distraction: never anger
Made good guard for itself.

Shaks. Ant. and Clea

Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,
And so shall starve with feeding.

Shaks. Coriolanus.

Brutus. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way, and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
Cassius. O gods! ye gods! must I endure all this?
Brutus. All this! ay more. Fret till your proud
heart break;

Go show your slave how choleric you are,
And make your bondsman tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you: for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea for my laughter,
When you are waspish.

Thus while he spake, each passion dimm'd his
face,

Thrice changed with pale ire, envy, and despair;
Which marr'd his borrow'd visage, and betray'd
Him counterfeit.

Milton's Paradise Lost,

The elephant is never won with anger;
Nor must that man, who would reclaim a lion,
Take him by the teeth.

Dryden's All for Love.
With hell, that thus thou ventur'st to provoke me?
Hast thou compacted for a lease of years
Dryden's Duke of Guise.

Shaks. Julius Cæsar. When anger rushes, unrestrain'd, to action,
Like a hot steed, it stumbles in its way:
The man of thought strikes deepest, and strikes
safest. Savage's Sir Thomas Overbury.
My indignation, like th' imprison'd fire,
Pent in the troubled breast of glowing Etna,
Burnt deep and silent.

I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath;
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,
The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France.
Shaks. King John.
O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world.
Shaks. King John.
Away to heaven, respective lenity,
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now.
Shaks. Romeo and Juliet.
This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord:
Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.
Shaks. Henry IV.
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what

Thomson's Coriolanus.
"T is all in vain, this rage that tears thy bosom;
Like a poor bird that flutters in its cage,
Thou beat'st thyself to death.

Rowe's Jane Shore.
Senseless, and deform'd,
Convulsive anger storms at large; or pale
And silent, settles into full revenge.

Thomson's Seasons.
Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies;
Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast,
Shaks. Henry IV. When husbands, or when lap-dogs, breathe their

last;

Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high,
In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie!
Pope's Rape of the Lock.
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss,
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss,
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinn'd awry,
E'er felt such rage.

Pope's Rape of the Lock.
Curse on the man that calls Rameses friend,
And keeps his temper at a tale like this;
When rage and rancour are the proper virtues,
And loss of reason is the mark of men.
Young's Busiris

For pale and trembling anger rushes in,
With faltering speech, and eyes that wildly stare

Fierce as the tiger, madder than the seas, Desperate, and arm'd with more than human strength.

The ocean, lash'd to fury loud,

Its high wave mingling with the cloud,
Is peaceful, sweet serenity,

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health. To anger's dark and stormy sea.

Next anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
Collins's Ode to the Passions.
Out upon the fool! go speak thy comforts
To spirits tame and abject as thyself:
They make me mad.

ANGLING.

J. W. Eastburne

In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring shade,
Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead,
The patient fisher takes his silent stand,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand:
Baillie's Ethwald. With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed,
And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed.
Pope's Windsor Forest.

His eye-brow dark, and eye of fire,
Showed spirit proud, and prompt to ire;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.

Scott's Marmion.

His brow was bent,-his eye was glazed-
He raised his arm and fiercely raised:
And sternly shook his hand on high,
As doubting to return or fly.

Byron's Giaour.

I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find
The workings of a wounded mind;
Each feature of that sullen corse
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse.

Byron's Giaour.

And her brow cleared, but not her troubled eye:
The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.
Byron's Don Juan.

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale
She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,
Waved and o'ershading her wan check, appears
Her streaming hair, the black curls strive, but fail,
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
Its snow through all; her soft lips lie apart,
And louder than her breathing beats her heart.
Byron's Don Juan.

Loud complaint, however angrily
I shakes its phrase, is little to be feared,
And less distrusted.

Byron's Doge of Venice.

Patience!-Hence-that word was made
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,-
I am not of thine order

Byron's Manfred.

'The wildest ills that darken life,
Are rapture to the bosom's strife;
The tempest, in its blackest forn
Is beauty to the bosom's storm;

That brutes have reason; sure 'tis something more,
"Tis heaven directs, and stratagems inspires,
Beyond the short extent of human thought.
Somerville's Chase

The heart is hard in nature, and unfit
For human fellowship, as being void
Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike
To love and friendship both, that is not pleased
With sight of animals enjoying life,
Nor feels their happiness augment his own.
Cowper's Task.

And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do,

Often man or woman,-
Give I back more love again,
Than dogs often take of men,
Learning from my human.

You each gentle animal

Miss Barrett