Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, "This is my own, my native land!" 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 concenter'd all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
WALTER SCOTT:
"LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."
[THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE.]
A STRANGE PIECE OF HISTORY.
