LVIII.—LOVE OF COUNTRY.SCOTT.
SCOTT.
1. Breathes there the man, with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said,“This is my own, my native land!”Whose heart has 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.2. 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 self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown;And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust from which he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.3. O Caledonia! stern and wild,Meet nurse for a poetic child,Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,Land of the mountain and the flood.Land of my sires; what mortal handCan e’er untie the filial bandThat knits me to thy rugged strand!
1. Breathes there the man, with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said,“This is my own, my native land!”Whose heart has 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.2. 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 self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown;And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust from which he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.3. O Caledonia! stern and wild,Meet nurse for a poetic child,Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,Land of the mountain and the flood.Land of my sires; what mortal handCan e’er untie the filial bandThat knits me to thy rugged strand!
1. Breathes there the man, with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said,“This is my own, my native land!”Whose heart has 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.
1. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is my own, my native land!”
Whose heart has 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.
2. 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 self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown;And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust from which he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
2. 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 self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown;
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from which he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
3. O Caledonia! stern and wild,Meet nurse for a poetic child,Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,Land of the mountain and the flood.Land of my sires; what mortal handCan e’er untie the filial bandThat knits me to thy rugged strand!
3. O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child,
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood.
Land of my sires; what mortal hand
Can e’er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand!