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 burn’d  
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d
  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, concentred all in self,  
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,  
And, doubly dying, shall go down  
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung. 

This entry was posted on Friday, September 22nd, 2017 at 10:26 am. Both comments and pings are currently closed.