Man, through all ages of revolving time,
  Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
  Deems his own land of every land the pride,
  Beloved by Heaven o’er the world beside;
  His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
  A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

* * * * *

FATHER AND MOTHER TONGUE.

  Our Father Land! and wouldst thou know
    Why we should call it Father Land? 
  It is that Adam here below
    Was made of earth by Nature’s hand;
  And he our father, made of earth,
    Hath peopled earth on every hand;
  And we, in memory of his birth,
    Do call our country Father Land.

  At first, in Eden’s bowers, they say,
    No sound of speech had Adam caught,
  But whistled like a bird all day,—­
    And maybe ’twas for want of thought: 
  But Nature, with resistless laws,
    Made Adam soon surpass the birds;
  She gave him lovely Eve because
    If he’d a wife they must have words.

  And so the native land, I hold,
    By male descent is proudly mine;
  The language, as the tale hath told,
    Was given in the female line. 
  And thus we see on either hand
    We name our blessings whence they’ve sprung;
  We call our country Father Land,
    We call our language Mother Tongue.

SAMUEL LOVER.

* * * * *

EAST, WEST, HOME’S BEST.

FROM “THE TRAVELLER.”

  As some lone miser visiting his store,
  Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o’er;
  Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
  Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: 
  Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
  Pleased with each good that heaven to man supplies: 
  Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
  To see the sum of human bliss so small;
  And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
  Some spot to real happiness consigned,
  Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,
  May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
  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, planting 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 blessings even.