Breathes There the Man with Soul So Dead

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my day, election day!
Who heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As toward the polling place he turned
And there to promptly made his way—
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, unhonour'd, and unsung.
from The Lay of the Last Minstrel