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, concentrated 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.
Excerpt from “The Lay of the Last Minstrel”
By Sir Walter Scott
I lettered this for my friend Hannah's birthday, but I thought I'd share it today as it is fitting. I memorized this poem back in high school, but the words have stuck with me all these years. I say this poem to myself when I return to the US after being abroad, and I say it to myself when the anti-patriotism of my co-workers annoys me. While there are many things about my country that grieve me and make me wish I could transfer my citizenship to Mars or Middle Earth, I am an American, and our country has some great things in its past. May God bless America, and may He save us from ourselves and our sinful choices.
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