Stood For His Country's Glory Fast, And

Breathes There The Man With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land.

Tears Are The Softening Showers Which Cause The Seed Of Heaven To Spring Up In The Human Heart.

Like The Dew On The Mountain, Like The Foam On The River, Like The Bubble On The Fountain, Thou Art Gone, And For Ever!

You Will, I Trust, Resemble A Forest Plant, Which Has Indeed, By Some Accident, Been Brought Up In The Greenhouse, And Thus Rendered Delicate And Effeminate, But Which Regains Its Native Firmness And Tenacity, When Exposed For A Season To The Winter Air.

One Hour Of Life, Crowded To The Full With Glorious Action, And Filled With Noble Risks, Is Worth Whole Years Of Those Mean Observances Of Paltry Decorum, In Which Men Steal Through Existence, Like Sluggish Waters Through A Marsh, Without Either Honor Or Observation.