POEMS OF HOME AND COUNTRY
Reading edition
I. "This is My Own, My Native Land"[40]
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 concentered 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. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand?
II. The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland[41]
There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle, 'Twas St. Patrick himself, sure, that set it; And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile, And with dew from his eye often wet it. It thrives through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland, And its name is the dear little shamrock of Ireland— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, The sweet little, green little shamrock of Ireland. This dear little plant still grows in our land, Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command, In what climate they chance to appear in; For they shine through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland, Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, The sweet little, green little shamrock of Ireland. This dear little plant that springs from our soil, When its three little leaves are extended, Betokens that each for the other should toil, And ourselves by ourselves be befriended,— And still through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland, From one root should branch like the shamrock of Ireland— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, The sweet little, green little shamrock of Ireland!
III. My Heart's in the Highlands[42]
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, Chasing the wild deer and following the roe— My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands forever I love. Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, Chasing the wild deer and following the roe— My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
IV. The Fatherland[43]
Where is the true man's fatherland? Is it where he by chance is born? Doth not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned? Oh, yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free! Is it alone where freedom is, Where God is God, and man is man? Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul's love of home than this? Oh, yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free! Where'er a human heart doth wear Joy's myrtle wreath or sorrow's gyves, Where'er a human spirit strives After a life more true and fair, There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland! Where'er a single slave doth pine, Where'er one man may help another,— Thank God for such a birthright, brother,— That spot of earth is thine and mine! There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland!
V. Home[44]
But where to find that 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 gods for all the good 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 blessing even.
FOOTNOTES:
Expression: Read all of these poems silently with a view towards sympathizing with the feelings which they express. Now read each one separately, and compare them, one with another. What is the leading sentiment inculcated by each? Which poem appeals the most strongly to your own emotions?
Word Study: Caledonia, shamrock, brake, Erin, gyves, yearning, frigid, tepid, patriot.