Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.
England with all thy faults, I love thee still – My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.
Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
Accomplishments have taken virtue’s place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.
The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
We sacrifice to dress till household joys and comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, and keeps our larder lean.
Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!
If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.
But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
My soul is sick with every day’s report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame, – all these belong to virtue, and all prove that virtue has a title to your love.
Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.