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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.
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