Heres the poem.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
' this is my own land, my native land.'
Whose heart hath never within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned.
From wandering on a foreign strand,
If such thre breath go, mark him well.
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power and pelf,
The wretch, concentrated all in itself,
Living, shall forfeit reknown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.
These lines are from The LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.
The poet is SIR WALTER SCOTT.
2006-09-14
07:00:19
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