Look back, and smile on perils past.
What a strange scene if the surge of conversation could suddenly ebb like the tide, and show us the real state of people's minds.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.
A few drops sprinkled on the torch of love make the flame blaze the brighter.
Stood for his country's glory fast, And nailed her colors to the mast!
Ridicule, the weapon of all others most feared by enthusiasts of every description, and which from its predominance over such minds, often checks what is absurd, and fully as often smothers that which is noble.