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Seite 368 - 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 concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept,...
Seite 368 - 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, unhonored, and unsung.
Seite 371 - Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery.
Seite 370 - Now swells the intermingling din ; the jar, Frequent and frightful, of the bursting bomb ; The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout, The ceaseless clangour, and the rush of men Inebriate with rage! — Loud and more loud The discord grows ; till pale Death shuts the scene, And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws His cold and bloody shroud.
Seite 368 - 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 Can e'er untie the filial baud, That knits me to thy rugged strand...
Seite 370 - Ah ! whence yon glare That fires the arch of heaven? — that dark red smoke Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are quenched In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round...
Seite 371 - And o'er the conqueror and the conquer'd draws His cold and bloody shroud. — Of all the men Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there In proud and vigorous health ; of all the hearts That beat with anxious life at sun-set there ; How few survive, how few are beating now ! AD is deep silence, like the fearful calm That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause ; Save when the frantic wail of widowed love Comes...
Seite 369 - Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way ; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my withered cheek ; Still lay my head by Teviot stone.