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XIX.
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XIX.

Who would not fight with heart and hand,
In any cause, for such a land,
Ne'er may the dastard traitor know,
The joys from sacred home that flow;
Nor even for one moment prove,
Man's dear respect, or woman's love;
Ne'er may be taste the sober bliss,
To live in such a spot as this;
The poor man's long sought paradise,
Where nature's choicest blessings rise,
And plenty, with a lavish hand,
Winnows her gifts o'er all the land;

123

Where yellow harvests bounteous wave,
Old Europe's starving sons to save;
And where, in the wide world alone,
“Sweet Harry's” gen'rous wish is known.

One of the few kingly wishes on record, which deserve to be for ever honoured in our recollection, is that of Henry the fourth of France, whose favourite hope it was, that “He might live to see the day, when every peasant in his kingdom would have a fowl to put in his pot on Sunday.” This homely wish deserves to have, and indeed has, endeared the memory of that gallant and noble prince to the hearts of all, even those of the stoutest republicans. The only country in which this blessing is enjoyed in its fullest extent, is America, where the most common labourer can if he please, and without extravagance, have his fowl for dinner on Sabbath day. All impartial relaters agree in representing that country as holding out to the poor, and those with small means, a prospect, which could they but behold it, would quickly allure them from their native homes, which present, for the most part, a prospect of endless labour, and endless privation. The commonest day-labourer, without a trade, can earn six or seven dollars a-week; a sum that will afford him a dinner of fresh or salt meat, or both, every day, and enable him even to indulge in roast-beef; which though perhaps not so fine as that of “Old England,” has this special advantage, that it is much more accessible to the generality of the people. The Americans know and feel their superior national happiness; and if they took as much pains to circulate true accounts of their country, as disingenuous travellers have taken to disseminate false ones, nothing but the vast ocean would prevent the poor peasants of Europe from pouring themselves into the bosom of America.

But the truth is, the writers of that country are divided into three classes, one of which claims the exclusive honours of patriotism, and is industriously employed in depreciating it; another in exalting it preposterously over the heads of other nations, without being able to give any reason for it; and a third, which knowing that the country has already quite enough of foreign leaven, to assist its rising, refrains from indirectly inviting foreigners, by setting forth its advantages; and is content merely occasionally, to refute unfounded aspersions and libellous sneers.


Ne'er may the coward caitiff know,
A country where such blessings flow;
But pine in Afric's scorching sand,
Or freeze on Lapland's ice-bound strand,
Or crouch beneath a tyrant's throne,
Nor dare to call his soul his own.
Or live at home—to know far worse,
The generous soul's most bitter curse—
Live in his native clime abhorr'd,
And dead, go down in black record,
A slave, who would not lift his hand,
To succour his own native land.