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SCOTT, Walter

Lay of the Last Minstrel
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 band,

That knits me to thy rugged strand!


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 burn'd

As home his footsteps he hath turn'd 5

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; 10

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, 15

The Lady of the Lake
Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;

In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,

The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.

Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,

And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;

Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending,

With distant echo from the fold and lea,

And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.
Where shall he find, in foreign land,

So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!--

There is no breeze upon the fern,

No ripple on the lake,

Upon her eyry nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake;

The small birds will not sing aloud,

The springing trout lies still,

So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,

That swathes, as with a purple shroud