Less liked he still, that scornful jeer Misprized the land, he loved so dear; High was the sound, as thus again The Bard resumed his minstrel strain. THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO SIXTH. I. 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, 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, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. II. 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 That knits me to thy rugged strand! |