Libanius, Oration 2.65-67
“Although I have especially considered the affairs of the whole world my own business, whether bad or good, and I have become the kind of person which fortune has made me, one who loves the world is not worthy of hatred.
So, if someone should restrain me just to taking care of the city which produced me, then this state would seem to be suffering misfortune because of the many immigrants who leave their own cities and homes to come here. Well, that’s if they really have homes they would be brave enough to see even in dreams, these foreigners who think it right to overpower citizens, despite fearing that the emperor might make a law to examine their unexpected wealth.
It is not enough for them to have what is ours, but if anyone dares to blame their good luck, they get enraged and anyone who complains is annoying. When you are the kind of people you are, how is it not terrifying to meet this limit to your freedom of speech?”
Μάλιστα μὲν οὖν τὰ τῆς οἰκουμένης ἁπάσης ἐμαυτοῦ νενόμικα βελτίω τε καὶ χείρω, καὶ γίγνομαι τοιοῦτος οἷον ἄν με ποιῶσιν αἱ ἐκείνης τύχαι, μισεῖσθαι δὲ ὁ φιλῶν τὴν οἰκουμένην οὐκ ἄξιος.
εἰ δ᾿ οὖν | καὶ κατακλείοι μέ τις εἰς τὴν ὑπὲρτῆς ἐνεγκούσης πρόνοιαν, ἀτυχεῖν μοι δοκεῖ ταῖς μετοικίαις αὕτη πολλῶν τινῶν οἳ τὰς αὑτῶν καταλιπόντες πόλεις καὶ οἴκους, εἰ δὴ καὶ οἴκους καὶ R οὐδ᾿ ἂν ὄναρ ἡδέως ἰδόντες οὗπερ ἔφυσαν, | ξένοι πολιτῶν κρατεῖν οἴονται δεῖν τρέμοντες1 μὴ νόμον θῇ βασιλεὺς εἶναι τῶν παραδόξων πλούτων εὐθύνας.
οἷς οὐκ ἐξαρκεῖ τὰ ἡμέτερα ἔχειν, ἀλλὰ κἂν αἰτιάσηταί τις τὴν Τύχην θυμοῦνται, καὶ βαρὺς ὁ μεμψάμενος· τὸ γὰρ εἰς τοῦθ᾿ ὑμᾶς ἥκειν παρρησίας ὄντας οἷοίπερ ἐστέ, πῶς οὐ πάνδεινον;
Ken Cuccinelli, “Give me your tired and your poor who can stand on their own two feet and who will not become a public charge.”
Emma Lazarus, “The New Colossus”
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
