They love their land because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it k… - Fitz-Greene Halleck

Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Come to the mother’s, when she feels
For the first time her first-born’s breath! Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke!
Come in consumption’s ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm!
Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet song, and dance, and wine!
And thou art terrible!—the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know or dream or fear Of agony are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet’s word;
And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be.

There is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest.

Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, The Douglas in red herrings.