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Breathes There
The Man— 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, 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. Sir Walter Scott
The American Flag When Freedom, from her mountain height. Unfurled her standard to the air. She tore the azure robe of night. And set the stars of glory there! She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle-bearer down. And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land! Majestic monarch of the cloud! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,— Child of the Sun! to thee’t is given To guard the banner of the free. To hover in the sulphur smoke.
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