Results with search term: 'walter scott'
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Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land ?
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever !
O, What a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!
One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age
without a name.
True love’s the gift of which God has given to man alone
beneath the heaven.
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