My Native Land

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own, my native land!"

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,

As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, 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, concentered all in self,

Living shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

from The Lay of the Last Minstrel