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 ought to be a 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.

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

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

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!

So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more.