The Aged Harper, howsoe'er Less liked he still, that scornful jeer The Bard resumed his minstrel strain. Canto Sixth. I. REATHES there the man, with soul 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, II. Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! That knits me to thy rugged strand! Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, |