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.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.