Land where he learned to lisp a mother’s name,
The first beloved in life, the last forgot,
Land of his frolic youth,
Land of his bridal eve,
Land of his children—vain your column’s strength,
Invaders! vain your battles’ steel and fire!
Choose ye the morrow’s doom—
A prison or a grave!
Halleck.
My country is my Holy Land. I love her!
The purest, brightest skies are spread above her.
And heavenliest verdure covers vale and hill.
The clearest waters fish did ever swim in
Are hers. And oh, what words can praise her virtuous women?
Nightshade, or Bitter-sweet.... Truth.
According to the belief of the ancients, Truth was the mother of Virtue, the daughter of Time, and queen of the world. It is a frequent saying, that Truth lies at the bottom of a well, and that she always mingles some bitterness with her sweet blessings; and we have chosen for her emblem a plant which, like her, delights in the shade, and is evergreen. The Nightshade is the only plant in England which loses and reproduces its leaves twice a year.
Truth, crushed to earth will rise again,
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among her worshippers.
Bryant.
The pure deep sky above may figure Truth;
Though mists and clouds may long obscure its face,
Gaze with patience, and ere long they’ll pass.
Peerbold.