My Native Land.

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.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 The True Glory of a Nation.

The True Glory of a Nation -

The true glory of a nation is in the living temple of a

loyal, industrious and upright people. The busy click of

machinery, the merry ring of the anvil, the lowing of

peaceful herds and the song of the harvest-home are

sweeter music than the peans of departed glory or songs

of triumph in war. The vine-clad cottage of the hill-

side, the cabin of the woodsman and the rural home of

the farmer are the true citadels of any country. There

is a dignity in honest toil which belongs not to the dis-

play of wealth or the luxury of fashion: The man who

drives the plow or swings his ax in the forest or with

cunning fingers plies the tools of his craft is as truly the -

servant of his country as the statesman in the Senate or

the soldier in battle. —H. B. WuippLe.