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, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.
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Comments
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hmm, quite an interesting depiction and opinion of a person who is rootless. although i can't help but wonder, like the poet, if there is such a person out there who hasn't found comfort in home turf at least once. even if you hate where you came from there is often a sense of comfort in familiarity. still. i think this is quite harsh. and incredibly patriotic.
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