Where faction seldom gathers head: 
    But, by degrees to fulness wrought,
    The strength of some diffusive thought
  Hath time and space to work and spread.
The Land of Lands.  A. TENNYSON.

  Broad-based upon her people’s will,
  And compassed by the inviolate sea.
To the Queen.  A. TENNYSON.

  SCOTLAND.

  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!
Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto VI.  SIR W. SCOTT.

  Hear, Land o’ Cakes and brither Scots
  Frae Maiden Kirk to Johnny Groat’s.
On Capt.  Grose’s Peregrinations Thro’ Scotland.  R. BURNS.

  HOLLAND.

  As when the sea breaks o’er its bounds,
  And overflows the level grounds,
  Those banks and dams that, like a screen
  Did keep it out, now keep it in.
Hudibras.  S. BUTLER.

  Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
  Where the broad Ocean leans against the land,
  And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,
  Lift the tall rampire’s artificial pride. 
  Onward methinks, and diligently slow,
  The firm connected bulwark seems to grow,
  Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar,
  Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
  While the pent Ocean, rising o’er the pile,
  Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;
  The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale,
  The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,
  The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,
  A new creation rescued from his reign.
The Traveller.  O. GOLDSMITH.

  ITALY.

  Italia!  O Italia! thou who hast
  The fatal gift of beauty, which became
  A funeral dower of present woes and past,
  On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,
  And annals graved in characters of flame.
Childe Harold, Canto IV.  LORD BYRON.

  Italy, my Italy! 
  Queen Mary’s saying serves for me
    (When fortune’s malice
    Lost her Calais): 
  Open my heart, and you will see
  Graved inside of it, “Italy.”
De Gustibus.  R. BROWNING.

COURAGE.

  Courage, the highest gift, that scorns to bend
  To mean devices for a sordid end. 
  Courage—­an independent spark from Heaven’s bright throne,
  By which the soul stands raised, triumphant, high, alone. 
  Great in itself, not praises of the crowd,
  Above all vice, it stoops not to be proud. 
  Courage, the mighty attribute of powers above,
  By which those great in war, are great in love. 
  The spring of all brave acts is seated here,
  As falsehoods draw their sordid birth from fear.
Love and a Bottle:  Dedication.  G. FARQUHAR.