BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
spacerspacerspacerspacerWho never to himself hath said,
spacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacer‘This is my own, my native land!’
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d
spacerspacerspacerspacerAs home his footsteps he hath turn’d
spacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerFrom 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,
spacerspacerspacerspacerBoundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
spacerspacerspacerspacerThe wretch, concentred all in self,
spacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerLiving, shall forfeit fair renown,
spacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerAnd, doubly dying, shall go down
spacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerspacerTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.

[Lay of the Last Minstrel — Canto Sixth, verse I]

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