There ought to be system of manners in every nation which a
well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. read more

There ought to be system of manners in every nation which a
well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. To make us love
our country, our country ought to be lovely.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and read more

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing.
To wander along by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

And nobler is a limited command,
Given by the love of all your native land,
Than a read more

And nobler is a limited command,
Given by the love of all your native land,
Than a successive title, long and dark,
Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's Ark.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my read more

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 burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!

Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to read more

Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand!

Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our read more

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,--are all with thee!

My dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent,
Long may thy read more

My dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

What exile from his country is able to escape from himself?
[Lat., Patriae quis exul se quoque fugit.]

What exile from his country is able to escape from himself?
[Lat., Patriae quis exul se quoque fugit.]