Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land Whose heart hath neer within him burnd, As home his footsteps he hath turnd 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, unhonord, and unsung.
Upon the death of his wife May 16 1826 She died at nine in the morning, after being ill for two dayseasy at last. I arrived here late last night. For myself, I scarce know how I feel sometimes as firm as the Bass Rock, sometimes as weak as the wate.
In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.
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