El Amor Patrio
Here is a beautiful subject, and because it is beautiful, it is very hackneyed. Learned man, poet, artist, laborer, merchant, or soldier, old or young, king or slave—all have pondered it and devoted to it the most valued fruits of their intelligence, or of their hearts. From the cultured European, free and proud of his glorious history, to the African Negro[,] dragged out of his forests and sold for a paltry sum; from ancient peoples[,] whose shadows still hover over their somber ruins—the tombs of their glories and sufferings—to the modern nations, full of activity and life[;] all, all have had and have an idol whom they call Motherland—beautiful, brilliant, sublime but implacable, haughty, and exacting.
A thousand tongues have sung to her[;] a thousand lyres have offered her their most sonorous music; the most favored intellects, the most inspired poets, have displayed before her view, or her memory, their most resplendent fineries. She has been the universal cry of peace, of love, and of glory, because she is in the hearts and minds of all men[;] and like the light enclosed in limpid crystal, she goes forth in the form of the most intense splendor.
And will this be an obstacle to us who wish to treat of her? And can we not dedicate to her something, we whose only sin is to have been born later? Would the 19th century serve as an excuse for us to be ungrateful? No. The rich mine of the heart has not yet been exhausted. Her remembrance is always prolific[,] and no matter how little inspiration we have, positively we will find in the bottom of our soul, if not a rich treasure, a mite, poor but an enthusiastic manifestation of our sentiments. In the manner then of the ancient Hebrews who offered in the temple the first fruits of their love, we in foreign land will dedicate our first utterances to our country, enveloped in morning clouds and mist, always beautiful and poetic, and the more idolized by her sons when they are absent and far away from her.
And this
A thousand tongues have sung to her[;] a thousand lyres have offered her their most sonorous music; the most favored intellects, the most inspired poets, have displayed before her view, or her memory, their most resplendent fineries. She has been the universal cry of peace, of love, and of glory, because she is in the hearts and minds of all men[;] and like the light enclosed in limpid crystal, she goes forth in the form of the most intense splendor.
And will this be an obstacle to us who wish to treat of her? And can we not dedicate to her something, we whose only sin is to have been born later? Would the 19th century serve as an excuse for us to be ungrateful? No. The rich mine of the heart has not yet been exhausted. Her remembrance is always prolific[,] and no matter how little inspiration we have, positively we will find in the bottom of our soul, if not a rich treasure, a mite, poor but an enthusiastic manifestation of our sentiments. In the manner then of the ancient Hebrews who offered in the temple the first fruits of their love, we in foreign land will dedicate our first utterances to our country, enveloped in morning clouds and mist, always beautiful and poetic, and the more idolized by her sons when they are absent and far away from her.
And this