― [3] ―
WILLIAM WALLACE.
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I.
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INSENSIBLE to high heroic deeds,
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Is there a spirit clothed in mortal weeds, |
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Who at the Patriot's moving story, |
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Devoted to his country's good, |
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Devoted to his country's glory, |
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Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood;— |
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List'neth not with breath heaved high, |
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Quiv'ring nerve, and glistening eye, |
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Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame, |
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That with the hero's worth may humble kindred claim? |
― 4 ―
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If such there be, still let him plod |
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On the dull foggy paths of care, |
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Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod |
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To view creation fair: |
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What boots to him the wond'rous works of God? |
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His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthy lair. |
II.
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Come, youths, whose eyes are forward cast, |
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And in the future see the past,— |
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The past, as winnow'd in the early mind |
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With husk and prickle left behind! |
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Come; whether under lowland vest, |
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Or, by the mountain-tartan prest, |
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Your gen'rous bosoms heave; |
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Pausing a while in thoughtful rest, |
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My legend lay receive. |
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Come, aged sires, who love to tell |
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What fields were fought, what deeds were done; |
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What things in olden times befell,— |
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Those good old times, whose term is run! |
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Come ye, whose manly strength with pride |
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Is breasting now the present tide |
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Of worldly strife, and cast aside |
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A hasty glance at what hath been! |
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Come, courtly dames, in silken sheen, |
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And ye, who under thatched roofs abide; |
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Yea, ev'n the barefoot child by cottage fire, |
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Who doth some shreds of northern lore acquire, |
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By the stirr'd embers' scanty light,— |
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List to my legend lay of Wallace wight. |
III.
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Scotland, with breast unmail'd, had sheath'd her sword, |
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Stifling each rising curse and hopeless prayer, |
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And sunk beneath the Southron's faithless lord |
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In sullen, deep despair. |
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The holds and castles of the land |
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Were by her hateful foemen mann'd. |
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To revels in each stately hall, |
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Did tongues of foreign accent call, |
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Where her quell'd chiefs must tamely bear |
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From braggard pride the taunting jeer. |
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Her harvest-fields, by strangers reap'd, |
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Were in the stranger's garner heap'd |
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The tenant of the poorest cot, |
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Seeing the spoiler from his door |
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Bear unreproved his hard-earn'd store, |
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Blush'd thus to be, and be a Scot. |
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The very infant, at his mother's beck, |
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Tho' with writh'd lip and scowling eye, |
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Was taught to keep his lisping tongue in check, |
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Nor curse the Southron passing by. |
IV.
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Baron brave and girded knight, |
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The tyrant's hireling slaves could be; |
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Nor graced their state, nor held their right. |
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Alone upon his rocky height, |
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The eagle rear'd his unstain'd crest, |
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And soaring from his cloudy nest, |
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Turn'd to the sun his daring eye, |
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And wing'd at will the azure sky, |
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For he alone was free. |
V.
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Oh! who so base as not to feel |
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The pride of freedom once enjoy'd, |
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Tho' hostile gold or hostile steel |
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Have long that bliss destroy'd! |
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The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt |
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Of independent sires, who bore |
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Names known to fame in days of yore, |
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'Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt; |
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But recent freedom lost—what heart |
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Can bear the humbling thought—the quick'ning, mad'ning smart! |
VI.
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Yes, Caledonian hearts did burn, |
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And their base chain in secret spurn; |
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And, bold upon some future day, |
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Swore to assert Old Scotland's native sway; |
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But 'twas in fitful thoughts that pass'd in thought away. |
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Tho' musing in lone cave or forest deep, |
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Some generous youths might all indignant weep; |
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Or in the vision'd hours of sleep, |
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Gird on their swords for Scotland's right, |
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And from her soil the spoiler sweep, |
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Yet all this bold emprise pass'd with the passing night. |
VII.
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But in the woods of Allerslie, |
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Within the walls of good Dundee, |
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Or by the pleasant banks of Ayr, |
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Wand'ring o'er heath or upland fair, |
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Existed worth without alloy, |
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In form a man, in years a boy, |
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Whose nightly thoughts for Scotland's weal, |
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Which clothed his form in mimick steel, |
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Which helm'd his brow, and glav'd his hand, |
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To drive the tyrant from the land, |
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Pass'd not away with passing sleep; |
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But did, as danger nearer drew, |
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Their purpos'd bent the firmer keep, |
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And still the bolder grew. |
VIII.
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'Tis pleasant in his early frolick feats, |
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Which fond tradition long and oft repeats, |
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The op'ning of some dauntless soul to trace, |
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Whose bright career of fame, a country's annals grace; |
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Yet this brief legend must forbear to tell |
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The bold adventures that befell |
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The stripling Wallace, light and strong, |
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The shady woods of Clyde among, |
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Where, roaring o'er its rocky walls, |
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The water's headlong torrent falls, |
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Full, rapid, powerful, flashing to the light, |
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Till sunk the boiling gulf beneath, |
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It mounts again like snowy wreath, |
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Which, scatter'd by contending blasts, |
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Back to the clouds their treasure casts, |
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A ceaseless wild turmoil, a grand and wondrous sight! |
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Or, climbing Carthland's Craigs, that high |
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O'er their pent river strike the eye, |
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Wall above wall, half veil'd, half seen, |
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The pendant folds of wood between, |
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With jagged breach, and rift, and scar, |
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Like the scorch'd wreck of ancient war, |
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And seem, to musing fancy's gaze, |
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The ruin'd holds of other days. |
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His native scenes, sublime and wild, |
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Where oft the youth his hours beguil'd, |
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As forester with bugle horn; |
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As angler in the pooly wave; |
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As fugitive in lonely cave, |
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Forsaken and forlorn! |
― 11 ―
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When still, as foeman cross'd his way, |
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Alone, defenceless, or at bay, |
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He raised his arm for freemen's right, |
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And on proud robbers fell the power of Wallace wight. |
IX.
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There is a melancholy pleasure |
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In tales of hapless love;—a treasure |
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From which the sadden'd bosom borrows |
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A short respite from present sorrows, |
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And ev'n the gay delight to feel, |
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As down young cheeks the soft tears steal; |
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Yet will I not that woeful tale renew, |
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And in light hasty words relate |
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How the base Southron's arm a woman slew, |
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And robb'd him of his wedded mate. |
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The name of her, who shar'd his noble breast, |
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Shall be remember'd and be blest. |
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A sweeter lay, a gentler song, |
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To those sad woes belong! |
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X.
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As light'ning from some twilight cloud, |
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At first but like a streaky line |
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In the hush'd sky, with fitful shine |
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Its unregarded brightness pours, |
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Till from its spreading, darkly volumed shroud |
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The bursting tempest roars; |
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His countrymen with faithless gaze |
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Beheld his valour's early blaze. |
XI.
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But rose at length with swelling fame |
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The honours of his deathless name; |
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Till, to the country's farthest bound, |
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All gen'rous hearts stirr'd at the sound; |
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Then Scotland's youth with new-wak'd pride, |
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Flock'd gladly to the hero's side, |
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In harness braced, with burnish'd brand, |
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A brave and noble band! |
― 13 ―
XII.
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Lenox, Douglas, Campbell, Hay, |
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Boyd, Scrimger, Ruthven, Haliday, |
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Gordon, Crawford, Keith, were there; |
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Lander, Lundy, Cleland, Kerr, |
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Steven, Ireland's vagrant lord; |
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Newbiggen, Fraser, Rutherford, |
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Dundas and Tinto, Currie, Scott; |
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Nor be in this brave list forgot |
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A Wallace of the hero's blood, |
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With many patriots staunch and good; |
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And first, though latest nam'd, there came, |
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Within his gen'rous breast to hold |
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A brother's place,—true war-mate bold! |
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The good, the gallant Graham. |
XIII.
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Thus grown to strength, on Biggar's well-fought field |
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He made on marshall'd host his first essay; |
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Where Edward's gather'd powers, in strong array, |
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Did to superior skill and valour yield, |
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And gain'd the glorious day. |
XIV.
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Then at the Forest kirk, that spot of ground |
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Long to be honour'd, flush'd with victory, |
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Crowded the Scottish worthies, bold and free, |
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Their noble chieftain round; |
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Where many a generous heart beat high |
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With glowing cheek and flashing eye, |
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And many a portly figure trod |
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With stately steps the trampled sod. |
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Banners in the wind were streaming; |
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In the morning light were gleaming |
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Sword, and spear, and burnish'd mail |
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And crested helm, and avantail, |
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And tartan plaids, of many a hue, |
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In flickering sunbeams brighter grew, |
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While youthful warriors' weapons ring |
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With hopeful, wanton brandishing. |
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XV.
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There, midmost in the warlike throng, |
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Stood William Wallace, tall and strong; |
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Towering far above the rest, |
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With portly mien and ample breast, |
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Brow and eye of high command, |
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Visage fair, and figure grand: |
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Ev'n to the dullest peasant standing by, |
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Who fasten'd still on him a wondering eye, |
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He seem'd the master-spirit of the land. |
XVI.
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O for some magic power to give |
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In vision'd form what then did live! |
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That group of heroes to pourtray, |
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Who from their trammell'd country broke |
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The hateful tyrant's galling yoke |
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On that eventful day! |
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XVII.
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Behold! like changeful streamers of the North, |
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Which tinge at times the wintry night, |
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With many hues of glowing light, |
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Their momentary forms break forth |
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To Fancy's gifted sight. |
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Each in his warlike panoply |
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With sable plumage waving high, |
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And burnish'd sword in sinewy hand, |
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Appears a chieftain of command, |
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Whose will, by look or sign to catch, |
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A thousand eager vassals watch. |
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What tho' those warriors, gleaming round, |
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On peaceful death-bed never lay, |
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But each, upon his fated day, |
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His end on field or scaffold found; |
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Oh! start not at the vision bright, |
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As if it were a ghastly sight! |
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For, 'midst their earthly coil, they knew |
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Feelings of joy so keen, so true, |
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As he who feels, with up-rais'd eye, |
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Thanks Heaven for life, and cannot rue |
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The gift, be what it may the death that he shall die. |
XVIII.
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Warden of Scotland, (not ashamed |
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A native right of rule to own |
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In worth and valour matchless shown) |
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They William Wallace there proclaim'd; |
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And there, exultingly, each gallant soul, |
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Ev'n proudly yielded to such high controul. |
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Greater than aught a tyrant ere achieved, |
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Was power so given, and so receiv'd. |
XIX.
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This truth full well King Edward knew, |
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And back his scatter'd host he drew, |
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Suing for peace with prudent guile; |
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And Wallace in his mind, the while, |
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Scanning with wary, wise debate |
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The various dangers of the state, |
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Desire of further high revenge foregoes |
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To give the land repose. |
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But smother'd hatred, in the garb of peace, |
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Did not, mean time, from hostile cunning cease; |
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But still more cruel deeds devis'd, |
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In that deceitful seeming guised. |
XX.
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The Southron rulers, phrasing fair |
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Their notice, summon'd lord, and laird, and knight, |
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To hold with them an ancient court of right, |
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At the good town, so named, their court of Ayr. |
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And at this general summons came |
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The pride and hope of many a name, |
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The love and anxious care of many a gentle dame. |
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XXI.
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Ent'ring the fatal Barns, fair sight! |
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Went one by one the manly train, |
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But neither baron, laird, nor knight, |
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Did e'er return again. |
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A heaven-commission'd friend that day |
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Stopp'd Wallace, hast'ning on his way, |
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(Who, by some seeming chance detain'd, |
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Had later at his home remain'd,) |
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The horse's bridle sternly grasp'd, |
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And then for rueful utterance gasp'd. |
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"Oh! go not to the Barns of Ayr! |
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"Kindred and friends are murder'd there. |
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"The faithless Southrons, one by one, |
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"On them the hangman's task hath done. |
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"Oh! turn thy steed, and fearful ruin shun!" |
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He, shudd'ring, heard, with visage pale, |
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Which quickly chang'd to wrath's terrific hue; |
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And then apace came sorrow's bursting wail; |
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The noble heart could weep that could not quail, |
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"My friends, my kinsmen, war-mates, bold and true! |
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"Met ye a villain's end! Oh is it so with you!" |
XXII.
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The hero turn'd his chafing steed, |
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And to the wild woods bent his speed. |
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But not to keep in hiding there, |
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Or give his sorrow to despair, |
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For the fierce tumult in his breast |
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To speedy, dreadful action press'd. |
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And there within a tangled glade, |
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List'ning the courser's coming tread, |
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With hearts that shar'd his ire and grief, |
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A faithful band receiv'd their chief. |
XXIII.
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In Ayr the guilty Southrons held a feast, |
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When that dire day its direful course had run, |
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And laid them down, their weary limbs to rest |
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Where the foul deed was done. |
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But ere beneath the cottage thatch |
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Cocks had crow'd the second watch; |
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When sleepers breathe in heavy plight, |
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Press'd with the visions of the night, |
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And spirits, from unhallow'd ground, |
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Ascend, to walk their silent round; |
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When trembles dell or desert heath, |
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The witches' orgy dance beneath,— |
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To the roused Warder's fearful gaze, |
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The Barns of Ayr were in a blaze. |
XXIV.
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The dense, dun smoke was mounting slow |
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And stately, from the flaming wreck below, |
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And mantling far aloft in many a volumed wreath; |
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Whilst town and woods, and ocean wide did lye, |
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Tinctur'd like glowing furnace-iron, beneath |
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Its awful canopy. |
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Red mazy sparks soon with the dense smoke blended, |
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And far around like fiery sleet descended. |
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From the scorch'd and crackling pile |
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Fierce burst the growing flames the while; |
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Thro' creviced wall and buttress strong, |
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Sweeping the rafter'd roofs along; |
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Which, as with sudden crash they fell, |
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Their raging fierceness seem'd to quell, |
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And for a passing instant spread |
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O'er land and sea a lurid shade; |
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Then with increasing brightness, high |
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In spiral form, shot to the sky |
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With momentary height so grand, |
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That chill'd beholders breathless stand. |
XXV.
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Thus rose and fell the flaming surgy flood, |
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'Till fencing round the gulphy light, |
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Black, jagg'd, and bare, a fearful sight! |
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Like ruin grim of former days, |
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Seen 'thwart the broad sun's setting rays, |
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The guilty fabric stood. |
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XXVI.
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And dreadful are the deaths, I ween, |
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Which midst that fearful wreck have been. |
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The pike and sword, and smoke and fire, |
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Have minister'd to vengeful ire. |
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New-waked wretches stood aghast |
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To see the fire-flood in their rear, |
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Close to their breast the pointed spear, |
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And in wild horror yell'd their last. |
XXVII.
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But what dark figures now emerge |
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From the dread gulph and cross the light, |
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Appearing on its fearful verge, |
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Each like an armed sprite? |
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Whilst one above the rest doth tower,— |
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A form of stern gigantic power, |
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Whirling from his lofty stand |
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The smold'ring stone or burning brand? |
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Those are the leagued for Scotland's native right, |
― 24 ―
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Whose clashing arms rang Southron's knell, |
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When to their fearful work they fell,— |
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That form is Wallace wight. |
XXVIII.
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And he like heaven's impetuous blast |
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Which stops not on its mission'd way, |
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By early morn, in strong array, |
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Onward to Glasgow past; |
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Where English Piercy held the rule; |
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Too noble and too brave to be a tyrant's tool. |
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A summon'd court should there have been, |
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But there far other coil was seen. |
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With fellest rage, in lane and street, |
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Did harnass'd Scot and Southron meet; |
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Well fought and bloody was the fierce afray: |
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But Piercy was by Wallace slain, |
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Who put to rout his num'rous train, |
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And gain'd the town by noon of day. |
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XXIX.
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Nor paused he there, for ev'ning tide |
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Saw him at Bothwel's hostile gate, |
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Which might not long assault abide, |
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But yielded to its fate. |
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And on from thence, with growing force, |
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He held his rapid, glorious course; |
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Whilst his roused clansmen, braced and bold, |
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As town and castle, tower and hold, |
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To the resistless victor fell, |
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His patriot numbers swell. |
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Thus when with current full and strong, |
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The wintry river bears along |
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Thro' mountain pass, and frith, and plain;— |
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Streams that from many sources pour, |
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Answer from far its kindred roar, |
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And deep'ning echoes roar again. |
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From its hill of heathy brown, |
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The muirland streamlet hastens down; |
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The mountain torrent from its rock, |
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Shoots to the glen with furious shock; |
― 26 ―
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E'en runlet low, and sluggish burn, |
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Speed to their chief with many a mazy turn, |
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And in his mingled strength, roll proudly to the main. |
XXX.
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O'er Stirling's towers his standard plays, |
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Lorn owns his rule, Argyle obeys. |
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In Angus, Merns, and Aberdeen, |
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Nor English Lord nor Cerf is seen; |
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Dundee alone averts King Edward's fate, |
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And Scotland's warden thunders at her gate. |
XXXI.
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But there his eager hopes are crost, |
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For news are brought of English host, |
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Which fast approaching thro' the land, |
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At Stirling mean to make their stand. |
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Faint speaks the haggard breathless scout, |
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Like one escaped from bloody rout,— |
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"On, Cressingham and Warren lead |
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"The martial'd host with stalwart speed, |
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"It numbers thirty thousand men, |
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"And thine, bold chieftain, only ten." |
XXXII.
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But higher tower'd the chieftain's head, |
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Broad grew his breast with ampler spread; |
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O'er cheek and brow the deep flush past, |
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And to high heaven his eyes he cast: |
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Right plainly spoke that silent prayer, |
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"My strength and aid are there!" |
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Then look'd he round with kindly cheer |
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On his brave war-mates standing near, |
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Who scann'd his face with eager eye |
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His secret feelings to descry. |
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"Come Hearts! who, on your native soil, |
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"For Scotland's cause have bravely stood, |
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"Come, brace ye for another broil, |
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"And prove your generous blood. |
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"Let us but front the tyrant's train, |
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"And he who lists may count their numbers then." |
― 28 ―
XXXIII.
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Nor dull of heart, nor slow were they |
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Their noble Leader to obey. |
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Cheer'd with loud shouts he gave his prompt command, |
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Forthwith to bound them on their way. |
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And straight their eager march they take |
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O'er hill and heath, o'er burn and brake, |
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Till marshall'd soon in dark array, |
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Upon their destin'd field of war they stand. |
XXXIV.
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Behind them lay the hardy north; |
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Before, the slowly winding Forth |
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Flow'd o'er the noiseless sand; |
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Its full broad tide with fossy sides, |
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Which east and west the land divides, |
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By wooden bridge was spann'd. |
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Beyond it, on a craggy slope, |
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Whose chimney'd roofs the steep ridge cope, |
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There smoked an ancient town; |
― 29 ―
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While higher on the firm-based rock, |
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Which oft had braved war's thunder-shock, |
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Embattled turrets frown. |
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A frith, with fields and woods, and hamlets gay, |
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And mazy waters, slyly seen, |
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Glancing thro' shades of Alder green, |
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Wore eastward from the sight to distance grey; |
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While broomy knoll and rocky peak, |
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And heathy mountains, bare and bleak, |
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A lofty screen on either hand, |
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Majestic rose, and grand. |
XXXV.
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Such was the field on which with dauntless pride |
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They did their coming foe abide; |
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Nor waited long till from afar |
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Were spy'd their moving ranks of war, |
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Like rising storm, which, from the western main, |
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Bears on in seried length its cloudy train;— |
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Slowly approaching on the burthen'd wind, |
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Moves each dark mass, and still another lowers behind. |
― 30 ―
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And soon upon the bridge appears, |
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Darkly rising on the light, |
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Nodding plumes and pointed spears, |
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And, crowding close, full many a warlike knight, |
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Who from its narrow gorge successive pour |
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To form their ranks upon the northern shore. |
XXXVI.
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Now, with notes of practis'd skill, |
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English trumpets, sounding shrill, |
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The battle's boastful prelude give |
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Which answer prompt and bold receive |
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From Scottish drum's long rowling bent, |
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And,—sound to valiant clansmen sweet!— |
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The highland pipe, whose lengthen'd swell |
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Of warlike pibroch, rose and fell, |
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Like wailings of the midnight wind, |
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With voice of distant streams combin'd, |
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While mountain, rock, and dell, the martial din repeat. |
― 31 ―
XXXVII.
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Then many a high-plumed gallant rear'd his head, |
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And proudly smote the ground with firmer tread, |
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Who did, ere close of ev'ning, lye |
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With ghastly face turn'd to the sky, |
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No more again the rouse of war to hear. |
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And many for the combat burn'd, |
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Who never from its broil return'd, |
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Kindred or home to cheer. |
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How short the term that shall divide |
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The firm-nerv'd youth's exerted force,— |
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The warrior, glowing in his pride, |
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From the cold stiffen'd corse! |
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A little term, pass'd with such speed, |
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As would in courtly revel scarce suffice, |
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Mated with lady fair, in silken guise, |
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The measur'd dance to lead. |
XXXVIII.
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His soldiers, firm as living rock, |
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Now braced them for the battle's shock; |
― 32 ―
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And watch'd their chieftain's keen looks glancing |
|
From marshall'd clans to foes advancing; |
|
Smiled with the smile his eye that lighten'd, |
|
Glow'd with the glow his brow that brighten'd: |
|
But when his burnish'd brand he drew, |
|
His towering form terrific grew, |
|
And every Scotchman, at the sight, |
|
Felt thro' his nerves a giant's might, |
|
And drew his patriot sword with Wallace Wight. |
XXXIX.
|
For what of thrilling sympathy, |
|
Did e'er in human bosom vye |
|
With that which stirs the soldier's breast, |
|
When, high in god-like worth confest, |
|
Some noble leader gives command, |
|
To combat for his native land? |
|
No; friendship's freely-flowing tide, |
|
The soul expanding; filial pride, |
|
That hears with craving, fond desire |
|
The bearings of a gallant sire; |
― 33 ―
|
|
The yearnings of domestic bliss, |
|
Ev'n love itself will yield to this. |
XL.
|
Few words the lofty hero utter'd, |
|
But deep response was widely mutter'd, |
|
Like echo'd echoes, circling round |
|
Some mountain lake's steep rocky bound. |
XLI.
|
Then rush'd they fiercely on their foes, |
|
And loud o'er drum and war-pipe rose |
|
The battle's mingled roar. |
|
The eager shout, the weapon's clash; |
|
The adverse rank's first closing crash, |
|
The sullen hum of striving life, |
|
The busy beat of trampling strife, |
|
From castle, rocks, and mountains round, |
|
Down the long firth, a grand and awful sound, |
|
A thousand echoes bore. |
― 34 ―
XLII.
|
Spears cross'd spears, a bending grove, |
|
As front to front the warriors strove. |
|
Thro' the dust-clouds, rising dun, |
|
Their burnish'd brands flash'd to the sun |
|
With quickly changing, shiv'ring light, |
|
Like streamers on the northern night; |
|
While arrow-showers came hurtling past, |
|
Like splinter'd wreck driven by the blast, |
|
What time fierce winter is contending, |
|
With Norway's pines, their branches rending. |
XLIII.
|
Long penants, flags, and banners move |
|
The fearful strife of arms above, |
|
Not as display'd in colours fair, |
|
They floated on the morning air; |
|
But with a quick, ungentle motion, |
|
As sheeted sails, torn by the blast, |
|
Flap round some vessel's rocking mast |
|
Upon a stormy ocean. |
― 35 ―
XLIV.
|
Opposing ranks, that onward bore, |
|
In tumult mix'd, are ranks no more; |
|
Nor aught discern'd of skill or form;— |
|
All a wild, bick'ring, steely storm! |
|
While oft around some fav'rite Chieftain's crest, |
|
The turmoil thick'ning, darkly rose, |
|
As on rough seas the billow grows, |
|
O'er lesser waves high-heaved, but soon deprest. |
|
So gallant Grame, thou noble Scot! |
|
Around thee rose the fearful fray, |
|
And other brave compeers of bold essay, |
|
Who did not spare their mothers' sons that day, |
|
And ne'er shall be forgot. |
XLV.
|
But where the mighty Wallace fought, |
|
Like spirit quick, like giant strong, |
|
Plunging the foe's thick ranks among, |
|
Wide room in little time was hew'd, |
|
And grizly sights around were strew'd; |
― 36 ―
|
|
Recoil'd aghast the helmed throng, |
|
And every hostile thing to earth was brought. |
|
Full strong and hardy was the foe |
|
To whom he gave a second blow. |
|
Many a knight and lord |
|
Fell victims to his sword, |
|
And Cressingham's proud crest lay low. |
XLVI.
|
And yet, all Southrons as they were, |
|
Their ranks dispers'd, their leader slain, |
|
Passing the bridge with dauntless air, |
|
They still came pouring on the plain; |
|
But weaken'd of its rafter'd strength, |
|
'Tis said by warlike craft, and trod |
|
By such successive crowds, at length |
|
The fabrick fell with all its living load. |
|
Loud was the shriek the sinking Southrons gave, |
|
Thus dash'd into the deep and booming wave. |
|
For there a fearful death had they, |
― 37 ―
|
|
Clutching each floating thing in vain, |
|
And struggling rose and sunk again, |
|
Who, 'midst the battle's loud affray, |
|
Had the fair meed of honour sought, |
|
And on the fieldlike lions fought. |
XLVII.
|
And there, upon that field—a bloody field, |
|
Where many a wounded youth was lying, |
|
And many dead and many dying, |
|
Did England's arms to Scotland's heroes yield. |
|
The close confusion opening round, |
|
The wild pursuit's receding sound, |
|
Is ringing in their ears, who low |
|
On cloated earth are laid, nor know, |
|
When those who chase and those who fly, |
|
With hasty feet come clatt'ring by, |
|
Or who hath won or who hath lost; |
|
Save when some dying Scotchman lifts his head, |
|
And, asking faintly how the day hath sped, |
― 38 ―
|
|
At the glad news, half from the ground |
|
Starts up, and gives a cheering sound |
|
And waves his hand and yields the ghost. |
|
A smile is on the corse's cheek, |
|
Stretch'd by the heather bush, on death bed bare and bleak. |
XLVIII.
|
With rueful eyes the wreck of that dire hour, |
|
The Southron's yet unbroken power, |
|
As on the river's adverse shore they stood, |
|
Silent beheld, till, like a mountain flood, |
|
Rush'd Stirling's castled warriors to the plain; |
|
Attack'd their now desponding force, |
|
And fiercely press'd their hasty course |
|
Back to their boasted native soil again. |
XLIX.
|
Of foes so long detested,—fear'd, |
|
Were towns and castles quickly clear'd; |
|
Thro' all the land at will might free men range: |
― 39 ―
|
|
Nor slave nor tyrant there appear'd; |
|
It was a blessed change! |
L.
|
The peasant's cot and homely farm, |
|
Hall-house and tower, secure from harm |
|
Or lawless spoil, again became |
|
The cheerful charge of wife or dame. |
|
'Neath humble roofs, from rafter slung |
|
The harmless spear, on which was hung |
|
The flaxen yarn in spindles coil'd, |
|
And leathern pouch and hozen soil'd, |
|
And rush or osier creel∗, that held
|
|
Both field and houshold geer; whilst swell'd |
|
With store of Scotland's fav'rite food, |
|
The seemly sack in corner stood; |
|
Remains of what the foe had left; |
|
Glad sight to folks so long bereft! |
― 40 ―
|
|
And look'd at oft and wisely spared, |
|
Tho' still with poorer neighbours shared. |
|
The wooden quaigh ∗ and trencher placed
|
|
On the shelv'd wall, its rudeness graced. |
|
Beneath the pot red faggots glanced, |
|
And on the hearth the spindle danced, |
|
As housewife's slight, so finely true, |
|
The lengthen'd thread from distaff drew, |
|
While she, belike, sang ditty shrill |
|
Of Southron louns with lengthen'd trill. |
asterisk. Creel, the common Scotch name for basket.
asterisk. Quaigh, a stained drinking cup.
LI.
|
In castle hall with open gate, |
|
The noble lady kept her state, |
|
With girdle clasp'd by gem of price, |
|
Buckle or hasp of rare device, |
|
Which held, constrain'd o'er bodice tight, |
|
Her woollen robe of colours bright; |
|
And with bent head and tranquil eye, |
|
And gesture of fair courtesy, |
― 41 ―
|
|
The stranger guest bade to her board |
|
Tho' far a field her warlike lord. |
|
A board where smoked on dishes clear |
|
Of massy pewter, sav'ry cheer, |
|
And potent ale was foaming seen |
|
O'er tankards bright of silver sheen, |
|
Which erst, when foe men bore the sway, |
|
Beneath the sod deep buried lay. |
|
For household goods, from many a hoard, |
|
Were now to household use restored. |
LII.
|
Neighbours with neighbours join'd, begin |
|
Their cheerful toil, whilst mingled din |
|
Of saw or hammer cleave the air, |
|
The roofless bigging ∗ to repair,
|
|
The woodman fells the gnarled tree, |
|
The ploughman whistles on the lea; |
― 42 ―
|
|
The falkner keen his bird lets fly, |
|
As lordlings gaze with upcast eye; |
|
The arrow'd sportsman strays at will, |
|
And fearless strays o'er moor and hill; |
|
The traveller pricks along the plain; |
|
The herdboys shout and children play; |
|
Scotland is Scotland once again, |
|
And all are boon and gay. |
asterisk. ∗ Bigging, house or building of any kind, but generally rustic and mean.
LIII.
|
Thus, freedom from a grievous yoke, |
|
Like gleam of sunshine o'er them broke; |
|
And souls, when joy and peace were new, |
|
Of every nature, kindlier grew. |
|
It was a term of liberal dealing, |
|
And active hope and friendly feeling, |
|
Thro' all the land might freemen range, |
|
It was a blessed change! |
― 43 ―
LIV.
|
So, when thro' forest wild hath past |
|
The mingled fray of shower and blast, |
|
Tissue of threaded gems is worn |
|
By flower and fern and briar and thorn, |
|
While the scourged oak and shaken pine, |
|
Aloft in brighten'd verdure shine. |
|
Then Wallace to St. Johnston went, |
|
And thro' the country quickly sent |
|
Summons to burgher, knight, and lord, |
|
Who, there convened, with one accord, |
|
Took solemn oath with short debate, |
|
Of fealty to the state, |
|
Until a King's acknowledged, rightful sway,— |
|
A native King, they should with loyal hearts obey. |
|
And he with foresight wise, to spare |
|
Poor Scotland, scourged, exhausted, bare, |
|
Whose fields unplough'd, and pastures scant, |
|
Had brought her hardy sons to want, |
|
His conquering army southward led, |
|
Which was on England's plenty fed: |
― 44 ―
|
|
And there, I trow, for many months they took |
|
Spoil of the land which ill that hateful change could brook. |
LV.
|
Edward, meantime, asham'd and wroth |
|
At such unseemly foil, and loth |
|
So to be bearded, sent defiance |
|
To Scotland's chief, in sure reliance |
|
That he, with all which he may southward bring, |
|
Of warlike force, dare not encounter England's King. |
LVI.
|
But Wallace, on the day appointed, |
|
Before this scepter'd and anointed, |
|
Who, strengthen'd with a num'rous host, |
|
There halted, to maintain his boast, |
|
On Stanmore's height, their battle ground, |
|
With all his valiant Scots was found. |
|
A narrow space of stony moor, |
|
With heath and likens mottled o'er, |
― 45 ―
|
|
And cross'd with dew-webs wiry sheen, |
|
The adverse armies lay between. |
|
When upland mists had worn away, |
|
And blue sky over-head was clearing, |
|
And things of distant ken appearing |
|
Fair on the vision burst, that martial grand array. |
|
The force on haughty Edward's side, |
|
Spearmen and archers were descry'd, |
|
Line beyond line, spread far and wide, |
|
Receding from the eye; |
|
While bristling pikes distinct and dark, |
|
As traced aloft with edgy mark, |
|
Seem'd graven on the sky; |
|
And armed Knights arm'd steeds bestriding, |
|
Their morions glancing bright, |
|
And to and fro their gay squires riding, |
|
In warlike geer bedight. |
|
O'er all the royal standard flew, |
|
With crimson folds of gorgeous hue, |
|
And near it, ranged, in colours gay, |
|
Inferior flags and banners play, |
― 46 ―
|
|
As broad-wing'd hawk keeps soaring high, |
|
Circled by lesser birds, that wheeling round him fly. |
|
Huge waggon, sleaded car, and wain, |
|
With dark, piled loads, a heavy train, |
|
Store-place of arms and yeoman's cheer, |
|
Frown'd in the further rear. |
LVII.
|
And martial'd on the northern side, |
|
The northern ranks the charge abide, |
|
In numbers few, but stout of heart, |
|
Their nation's honour to assert. |
LVIII.
|
Thus on the field with clans and liegemen good, |
|
England's great King, and Scotland's Warden stood. |
|
That Monarch proud, did rightly claim |
|
'Mongst Europe's lords the fairest fame, |
|
And had, in cause of Christentie, |
|
Fought with bold Saracens right gallantly. |
― 47 ―
|
|
That Warden was the noblest man |
|
That e'er grac'd nation, race, or clan, |
|
And grasp'd within his brave right hand |
|
A sword, which from the dust had rais'd his native land. |
LIX.
|
Who had not cried, that look'd upon |
|
So brave and grand a sight, |
|
"What stalwart deeds shall here be done |
|
"Before the close of night!" |
|
But Edward mark'd with falt'ring will, |
|
The Scottish battle ranged with skill, |
|
Which spoke the Leader's powerful mind. |
|
On England's host that number'd twice their foes, |
|
But newly raised, nor yet enured to blows, |
|
He rueful look'd, his purpose fail'd, |
|
He look'd again, his spirit quail'd, |
|
And battle gage declin'd. |
― 48 ―
LX.
|
And thus did he to Wallace yield, |
|
The bloodless honours of the field. |
|
But as the Southron ranks withdrew, |
|
Scarcely believing what he saw, |
|
The wary Chief might not expose |
|
His soldiers to returning foes, |
|
Or ambush'd snare, and gave the order, |
|
With beat of drum and trumpet sounding, |
|
The air with joyous shouts resounding, |
|
To cross with homeward steps the English border. |
LXI.
|
Scotland thus, from foes secure, |
|
Her prudent Chieftain to enure |
|
His nobles still to martial toil, |
|
Sought contest on a distant soil; |
|
And many a young and valiant knight, |
|
For foreign wars were with their leader dight. |
|
And soon upon the seas careering |
― 49 ―
|
|
In gallant ship, whose penants play, |
|
Waving and curling in the air, |
|
With changeful hues of colour fair, |
|
Themselves as gallant, boon, and gay, |
|
Their course with fav'ring breezes steering, |
|
To friendly France they held their way. |
LXII.
|
And they upon the ocean met |
|
With warlike fleet, and sails full set, |
|
De Longoville, that bold outlaw, |
|
Whose name kept mariners in awe. |
|
This man, with all his desp'rate crew |
|
Did Wallace on the waves subdue. |
|
One Scottish ship the pirate thought |
|
As on her boarded deck he fought, |
|
Cheer'd by his sea-mates' warlike cries, |
|
A sure and easy prize. |
|
But Wallace's mighty arm he felt; |
|
Yea, at his conqueror's feet he knelt; |
― 50 ―
|
|
And there disdained not to crave |
|
And take the mercy of the brave; |
|
For still, as thing by nature fit, |
|
The brave unto the brave are knit. |
|
Thus natives of one parent land, |
|
In crowded mart, on foreign strand, |
|
With quick glance recognize each other; |
|
"That mien! that step! it is a brother! |
|
"Tho' mingled with a meaner race, |
|
"In foreign garb, I know that face, |
|
"His features beam like those I love, |
|
"His limbs with mountain vigour move, |
|
"And tho' so strange and alien grown, |
|
"The kindred tie my soul will own." |
|
De Longoville, ev'n from that hour, a knight, |
|
True to his native King, true to the right, |
|
Fought with the Scottish hero to the end, |
|
In many a bloody field, his tried and valiant friend. |
― 51 ―
LXIII.
|
And nobly in the lists of France, |
|
Those noble Scots with brand and lance, |
|
'Midst foreign knights and warriors blended, |
|
In generous rivalry contended, |
|
Whilst their brave Chieftain taught them still, |
|
The soldier's dext'rous art and leader's nobler skill. |
LXIV.
|
But English Edward, tired the while |
|
Of life inert and covert guile, |
|
Most faithless to the peace so lately made, |
|
Was northward bound again, poor Scotland to invade. |
|
Then Wallace, with his valiant band, |
|
By Scotland's faithful sons recall'd, |
|
Whom foreign yoke full sorely gall'd, |
|
Must raise again his glaved hand |
|
To smite the shackles from his native land. |
― 52 ―
LXV.
|
Brave hearts, who had in secret burn'd, |
|
To see their country bear the yoke, |
|
Hearing their Warden was return'd, |
|
Forth from their secret hidings broke, |
|
Wood, cave, or mountain-cliff, and ran |
|
To join the wond'rous man. |
LXVI.
|
It was a sight to chase despair, |
|
His standard floating on the air, |
|
Which, curling oft with courteous wave, |
|
Still seem'd to beckon to the brave. |
|
And when approach'd within short space, |
|
They saw his form and knew his face,— |
|
That brow of hope, that step of power, |
|
Which stateliest strode in danger's hour,— |
|
How glow'd each heart!—"Himself we see! |
|
"What, tho' but few and spent we be! |
― 53 ―
|
|
"The valiant heart despaireth never; |
|
"The rightful cause is strongest ever; |
|
"While Wallace lives, the land is free." |
LXVII.
|
And he this flatt'ring hope pursued, |
|
And war with England's King renew'd. |
|
By martial stratagem he took |
|
St. Johnston's stubborn town, a hold |
|
So oft to faithless tyrants sold; |
|
And cautious patriots then forsook |
|
Ignoble shelter, kept so long, |
|
And join'd in arms the ardent throng, |
|
Who with the Warden southward past, |
|
Like clouds increasing on the blast. |
LXVIII.
|
Fife from the enemy he won, |
|
And in his prosp'rous course held on, |
|
Till Edward's strength, borne quickly down, |
|
Held scarcely castle, tower, or town, |
― 54 ―
|
|
In all the southern shires; and then |
|
He turn'd him to the north again; |
|
Where from each wall'd defence, the foe expell'd, |
|
Fled fast, Dundee alone still for King Edward held. |
LXIX.
|
But the oppressor, blushing on his throne |
|
To see the Scotch his warriors homeward chase, |
|
And those, so lately crush'd, so powerful grown, |
|
But ill could brook this sudden foul disgrace. |
|
And he a base, unprincely compact made |
|
With the red Cumming, traitor, black of heart! |
|
Who to their wicked plot, in secret laid, |
|
Some other chieftains gain'd with wily art. |
|
And he hath dared again to send |
|
A noble army, all too brave |
|
For such unmanly, hateful end, |
|
A land of freedom to enslave. |
|
At Falkirk soon was England's proudest boast |
|
Marshall'd in grand array, a brave and powerful host. |
― 55 ―
LXX.
|
But there with valiant foe to cope, |
|
Soon on the field stood Scotland's hope, |
|
Ev'n thirty thousand warriors, led |
|
By noble Wallace, each, that day, |
|
Had cheerfully his heart's blood shed |
|
The land to free from Southron's sway. |
|
Alas! had all her high-born chieftains been |
|
But as their leader and their clansmen true, |
|
She on that field a glorious day had seen, |
|
And made, tho' match'd with them, in number few, |
|
King Edward's vaunted host that fatal day to rue. |
LXXI.
|
But envy of a hero's fame, |
|
Which so obscured each lofty name, |
|
Was meanly harbour'd in the breast |
|
Of those who bore an honour'd crest. |
|
But most of all Red Cumming nursed |
|
In his dark breast this bane accursed, |
― 56 ―
|
|
That, with the lust of power combin'd, |
|
O'er-master'd all his wretched mind. |
|
Then to Lord Stewart, secretly, |
|
Spoke with smooth words the traitor sly, |
|
Advising that, to grace his name, |
|
Being by right confess'd the man, |
|
Who ought to lead the Scottish van, |
|
He should the proud distinction claim. |
|
And thus, as one of low estate, |
|
With lip of scorn, and brow elate, |
|
Did he, by traitors back'd, the godlike Wallace bate. |
LXXII.
|
"Must noble chiefs of high degree, |
|
"Scotland's best blood, be led by thee? |
|
"Thou, who art great but as the owl, |
|
"Who plumed her wing from every fowl, |
|
"And, hooting on her blasted tree, |
|
"Would greater than the eagle be." |
― 57 ―
LXXIII.
|
"I stood," said Wallace "for the right, |
|
"When ye in holes shrunk from the light; |
|
"My plumes spread to the blazing sun |
|
"Which coweringly ye sought to shun. |
|
"Ye are the owls, who from the gloom |
|
"Of cleft and cranny boasting come; |
|
"Yet, hoot and chatter as ye may, |
|
"I'll not to living man this day |
|
"Resign the baton of command, |
|
"Which Scotland's will gave to my hand, |
|
"When spoil'd, divided, conquer'd, maim'd, |
|
"None the dangerous honour claim'd; |
|
"Nor, till my head lie in the dust, |
|
"Will it betray her sacred trust." |
LXXIV.
|
With flashing eye, and dark red brow, |
|
He utter'd then a hasty vow, |
|
Seeing the snare by treason laid, |
|
So strongly wove, so widely spread, |
― 58 ―
|
|
And slowly from the field withdrew; |
|
While, slow and silent at his back, |
|
March'd on his wayward, cheerless track, |
|
Ten thousand Scotchmen staunch and true, |
|
Who would, let good or ill betide, |
|
By noble Wallace still abide. |
LXXV.
|
To them it was a strange and irksome sight, |
|
As on a gentle hill apart they stood, |
|
To see arm'd squadrons closing in the fight, |
|
And the fierce onset to their work of blood. |
|
To see their well-known banners as they moved |
|
When dark opposing ranks with ranks are blending, |
|
To see the lofty plumes of those they loved |
|
Wave to and fro, with the brave foe contending. |
LXXVI.
|
It hath been said, that gifted seer, |
|
On the dark mountain's cloudy screen, |
|
Forms of departed chiefs hath seen, |
― 59 ―
|
|
In seeming armour braced with sword and spear, |
|
O'erlooking some dire field of death, |
|
Where warriors, warm with vital breath, |
|
Of kindred lineage, urge the glorious strife; |
|
They grasp their shadowy spears, and forward bend |
|
In eager sympathy, as if to lend |
|
Their aid to those, with whom in mortal life, |
|
They did such rousing, noble conflict share,— |
|
As if their phantom forms of empty air, |
|
Still own'd a kindred sense of what on earth they were. |
LXXVII.
|
So Wallace and his faithful band survey'd |
|
The fatal fight, when Scotland was betray'd |
|
By the false Cumming, who most basely fled, |
|
And from the field a thousand warriors led. |
|
O how his noble spirit burn'd, |
|
When from his post the traitor turn'd, |
|
Leaving the Stuart sorely prest! |
|
Who with his hardy Scots the wave |
― 60 ―
|
|
Of hostile strength did stoutly breast, |
|
Like clansmen true and brave. |
|
His visage flush'd with angry glow, |
|
He clench'd his hand, and struck his brow. |
|
His heart within his bosom beat |
|
As it would break from mortal seat, |
|
And when at last they yielded space, |
|
And he beheld their piteous case, |
|
Big scalding tears cours'd down his manly face. |
LXXVIII.
|
But, ah! that fatal vow, that pride |
|
Which doth in mortal breast reside, |
|
Of noble minds the earthly bane, |
|
His gen'rous impulse to restrain, |
|
Had power in that dark moment! still |
|
It struggled with his better will. |
|
And who, superior to this tempter's power, |
|
Hath ever braved it in the trying hour? |
|
O! only he, who, strong in heavenly grace, |
― 61 ―
|
|
Taking from wretched thrals, of woman born, |
|
Their wicked mockery, their stripes, their scorn, |
|
Gave his devoted life for all the human race. |
|
He viewed the dire disast'rous fight, |
|
Like a fall'n cherubim of light, |
|
Whose tossing form now tow'rs, now bends, |
|
And with its darken'd self contends, |
|
Till many a brave and honour'd head |
|
Lay still'd upon a bloody bed, |
|
And Stuart, midst his clans, was number'd with the dead. |
LXXIX.
|
Then rose he, like a rushing wind, |
|
Which strath or cavern hath confin'd, |
|
And straight thro' England's dark array, |
|
With his bold mates, hew'd out his bloody way. |
|
A perilous daring way, and dear the cost! |
|
For there the good, the gallant Grame he lost. |
|
The gallant Grame, whose name shall long |
|
Remember'd be in Scottish song. |
― 62 ―
|
|
And second still to Wallace wight |
|
In lowland tale of winter's night, |
|
Who loved him as he never loved another. |
|
Low to the dust he bent his head, |
|
Deep was his anguish o'er the dead.— |
|
"That daring hand, that gentle heart! |
|
"That lofty mind! and must we part? |
|
"My brother, Oh, my brother!" |
LXXX.
|
But how shall verse feign'd accents borrow, |
|
To speak with words their speechless sorrow, |
|
Who, on the trampled, blood-stain'd green |
|
Of battle-field, must leave behind |
|
What to their souls hath dearest been, |
|
To stiffen in the wind? |
|
The soldier there, or kern or chief, |
|
Short parley holds with shrewdest grief; |
|
Passing to noisy strife from what, alas! |
|
Shall from his sadden'd fancy never pass,— |
― 63 ―
|
|
The look that ev'n thro' writhing pain, |
|
Says, "shall we never meet again!" |
|
The grasping hand or sign but known, |
|
Of tenderness, to one alone: |
|
The lip convulsed, the life's last shiver; |
|
The new-closed eye, yet closed for ever, |
|
The brave must quit;—but, from the ground, |
|
They, like th' enchafed lion bound. |
|
Rage is their sorrow, grimly fed, |
|
And blood the tears they shed. |
LXXXI.
|
Too bold it were for me to tell, |
|
How Wallace fought; how on the brave |
|
The ruin of his anguish fell, |
|
Ere from the field, his bands to save, |
|
He broke away, and sternly bore |
|
Along the stony Carron's shore. |
|
The dark brown water, hurrying past, |
|
O'er stone and rocky fragment cast |
― 64 ―
|
|
The white churn'd foam with angry bray, |
|
And wheel'd and bubbled on its way, |
|
And lash'd the margin's flinty guard, |
|
By him unheeded and unheard; |
|
Albeit, his mind, dark with despair, |
|
And grief, and rage, was imaged there. |
LXXXII.
|
And there, 'tis said, the Bruce descried |
|
Him marching on the rival side. |
|
The Bruce, whose right the country own'd, |
|
(Had he possess'd a princely soul, |
|
Disdaining Edward's base controul,) |
|
To be upon her chair of power enthron'd. |
LXXXIII.
|
"Ho, chieftain!" said the princely slave, |
|
"Thou who pretend'st the land to save |
|
"With rebel sword, opposed to me, |
|
"Who should of right thy sovereign be; |
― 65 ―
|
|
"Think'st thou the Scottish crown to wear, |
|
"Opposed by foreign power so great, |
|
"By those at home of high estate? |
|
"Cast the vain thought to empty air, |
|
"Thy fatal mad ambition to despair." |
LXXXIV.
|
"No!" Wallace answer'd; "I have shewn |
|
"This sword to gain or power or throne |
|
"Was never drawn; no act of mine |
|
"Did e'er with selfish thought combine. |
|
"Courage to dare, when others lay |
|
"In brutish sloth, beneath the sway |
|
"Of foreign tyranny; to save |
|
"From thraldom, hateful to the brave, |
|
"My friends, my countrymen; to stand |
|
"For right and honour of the land, |
|
"When nobler arms shrunk from the task, |
|
"In a vile tyrant's smiles to bask, |
|
"Hath been my simple warrant of command. |
― 66 ―
|
|
"And Scotland hath confirm'd it.—No; |
|
"Nor shall this hand her charge forego, |
|
"While Southron in the land is found |
|
"To lord it o'er one rood of Scottish ground, |
|
"Or till my head be low." |
LXXXV.
|
Deep blush'd the Bruce, shame's conscious glow |
|
And own'd the hero's words were true; |
|
And with his followers, sad and slow |
|
To Edward's camp withdrew. |
LXXXVI.
|
But fleeting was the mighty tyrant's boast, |
|
(So says the learned clerk of old, |
|
Who first our hero's story told,) |
|
Fleeting the triumph of his numerous host. |
|
For with the morning's early dawn |
|
The Scottish soldiers, scatter'd wide, |
― 67 ―
|
|
Hath Wallace round his standard drawn, |
|
Hath cheer'd their spirits, rous'd their pride, |
|
And led them, where their foes they found, |
|
All listless, scatter'd on the ground. |
|
On whom with furious charge they set; |
|
And many a valiant Southron met |
|
A bloody death, waked from the gleam |
|
And inward vision of a morning's dream; |
|
Where Fancy in his native home |
|
Led him through well-known fields to roam, |
|
Where orchard, cot, and copse appear, |
|
And moving forms of kindred dear;— |
|
For in the rugged soldier's brain |
|
She oft will fairy court maintain |
|
Full gently, as beneath the dusk |
|
Of hard-ribb'd shell, the pearl lies, |
|
Or silken bud in prickly husk;— |
|
He from her vision's sweet unseals his eyes |
|
To see the stern foe o'er him darkly bending, |
|
To feel the deep-thrust blade his bosom rending, |
― 68 ―
LXXXVII.
|
So many Southrons there were slain, |
|
So fatal was the vengeance ta'en, |
|
That Edward, with enfeebled force, |
|
Check'd mad ambition's unbless'd course, |
|
And to his own fair land return'd again. |
LXXXVIII.
|
Then Wallace thought from tower and town |
|
And castled hold, as heretofore, |
|
To pull each English banner down |
|
And free the land once more. |
|
But ah! the generous hope he must forego! |
|
Envy and pride have Scotland's cause betrayed; |
|
All now are backward, listless, cold, and slow, |
|
His patriot arm to aid. |
LXXXIX.
|
Then to St. Johnston, at his call, |
|
Met burghers, knights, and nobles all, |
― 69 ―
|
|
Who on the pressing summons wait, |
|
A full assembly of the state. |
|
There he resign'd his ensigns of command, |
|
Which erst had kept the proudest Thanes in awe; |
|
Retaining in that potent hand |
|
Which thrice redeem'd its native land, |
|
His simple sword alone, with which he stood |
|
Midst all her haughty peers of princely blood, |
|
The noblest man e'er Scotland saw. |
XC.
|
And thus did Scottish lords requite |
|
Him, who, in many a bloody fight, |
|
The country's champion stood; her people's Wallace wight. |
|
O black ingratitude! thy seemly place |
|
Is in the brutish, mean, and envious heart; |
|
How is it then, thou dost so oft disgrace |
|
The learn'd, the wise, the highly born, and art |
|
Like cank'ring blights, the oak that scathe, |
|
While fern and brushwood thrive beneath; |
― 70 ―
|
|
Like dank mould on the marble tomb, |
|
While graves of turf with violets bloom. |
|
Selfish ambition makes the lordliest Thane |
|
A meaner man than him, who drives the loaded wain. |
XCI.
|
And he with heavy heart his native shore |
|
Forsook to join his old ally once more. |
|
And in Guienne right valiant deeds he wrought; |
|
Till under iron yoke opprest, |
|
From north to south, from east to west, |
|
His most unhappy groaning country sought |
|
The generous aid she never sought in vain; |
|
And with a son's unwearied love, |
|
Which fortune, time, nor wrongs could move, |
|
He to maintain her cause again repass'd the main. |
|
The which right bravely he maintain'd; |
|
And divers castles soon regain'd. |
|
The sound ev'n of his whisper'd name |
|
Revived in faithful hearts the smother'd flame, |
|
And many secretly to join his standard came. |
― 71 ―
|
|
St. Johnston's leaguered walls at length |
|
Were yielded to his growing strength; |
|
And on, with still increasing force, |
|
He southward held his glorious course. |
XCII.
|
Then Edward thought the chief to gain, |
|
And win him to his princely side |
|
With treasur'd gold and honours vain, |
|
And English manors fair and wide. |
|
But with flush'd brow and angry eye |
|
And words that shrewdly from him broke, |
|
Stately and stern, he thus bespoke |
|
The secret embassy. |
|
"These kingly proffers made to me! |
|
"Return and say it may not be. |
|
"Lions shall troop with herdsmen's droves, |
|
"And eagles roost with household doves, |
|
"Ere William Wallace draw his blade |
|
"With those who Scotland's rights invade. |
― 72 ―
|
|
"Yea, ev'n the touch of bondsman's chain, |
|
"Would in my thrilling members wake |
|
"A loathful sense of rankling pain |
|
"Like coiling of a venom'd snake." |
|
The King abash'd, in courtly hold, |
|
Receiv'd this answer sooth and bold. |
XCIII.
|
But ah! the fated hour drew near |
|
That stopp'd him in his bold career. |
|
Monterith, a name which from that day, I ween, |
|
Hateful to every Scottish ear hath been, |
|
Which highland kern and lowland hind |
|
Have still with treacherous guile combin'd,— |
|
The false Monteith, who under show |
|
Of friendship, sold him to the foe, |
|
Stole on a weary secret hour, |
|
As sleeping and disarm'd he lay, |
|
And to King Edward's vengeful power |
|
Gave up the mighty prey. |
― 73 ―
XCIV.
|
At sight of noble Wallace bound, |
|
The Southrons raised a vaunting sound, |
|
As if the bands which round his limbs they drew, |
|
Had fetter'd Scotland too. |
|
They gaz'd and wonder'd at their mighty thrall; |
|
Then nearer drew with movements slow, |
|
And spoke in whispers deep and low.— |
|
"This is the man to whom did yield |
|
"The doughtiest knight in banner'd field, |
|
"Whose threat'ning frown the boldest did appal!" |
|
And, as his clanging fetters shook, |
|
Cast on him oft a fearful look, |
|
As doubting if in verity |
|
Such limbs with iron might holden be: |
|
While boldest spearmen by the pris'ner's side |
|
With beating heart and haggard visage ride. |
XCV.
|
Thus on to London they have past, |
|
And in the Tower's dark dungeons cast |
― 74 ―
|
|
The hero; where, in silent gloom, |
|
He must abide his fatal doom. |
|
There pent, from earthly strife apart, |
|
Scotland still rested on his heart. |
|
Aye; every son that breathed her air |
|
On cultur'd plain or mountain bare, |
|
From chief in princely castle bred |
|
To herdsman in his sheeling shed, |
|
From war-dight youth to barefoot child, |
|
Who picks in brake the berry wild;— |
|
Her gleamy lakes and torrents clear, |
|
Her towns, her towers, her forests green, |
|
Her fields where warlike coil hath been, |
|
Are to his soul most dear. |
XCVI.
|
His fetter'd hands support a head, |
|
Whose nodding plume had terror spread |
|
O'er many a face, ev'n seen from far, |
|
When moving in the ranks of war. |
― 75 ―
|
|
Lonely and dark, unseen of man, |
|
But in that Presence whose keen eye |
|
Can darkest breast of mortal scan, |
|
The bitter thought and heavy sigh |
|
Have way uncheck'd, and utter'd grief |
|
Gave to his burthen'd heart a soothing, sad relief. |
XCVII.
|
"It hath not to this arm been given |
|
"From the fell tyrant's grinding hand |
|
"To set thee free, my native land! |
|
"I bow me to the will of Heaven! |
|
"But have I run my course in vain? |
|
"Shall thou in bondage still remain? |
|
"The spoiler o'er thee still have sway, |
|
"Till virtue, strength, and pride decay? |
|
"O no! still panting to be free, |
|
"Thy noblest hearts will think of me. |
|
"Some brave, devoted, happier son |
|
"Will do the work I would have done; |
― 76 ―
|
|
"And blest be he, who nobly draws |
|
"His sword in Scotland's cause!" |
XCVIII.
|
Perhaps his vision'd eye might turn |
|
To him who fought at Bannockburn. |
|
Or is it wildness to believe |
|
A dying patriot may receive, |
|
(Who sees his mortal span diminish'd |
|
To nought, his generous task unfinish'd,) |
|
A seeming fruitless end to cheer, |
|
Some glimpses of the gifted seer? |
|
O no! 'tis to his closing sight |
|
A beacon on a distant height,— |
|
The moon's new crescent, seen in cloudy kirtled night. |
XCIX.
|
And much he strove with Christian grace, |
|
Of those who Scotland's foes had been, |
|
His soul's strong hatred to efface, |
|
A work of grace, I ween! |
― 77 ―
|
|
Meekly he bow'd o'er bead and book, |
|
And every worldly thought forsook. |
C.
|
But when he on the scaffold stood, |
|
And cast aside his mantling hood, |
|
He eyed the crowd, whose sullen hum, |
|
Did from ten thousand upcast faces come, |
|
And armed guardsmen standing round, |
|
As he was wont on battle-ground, |
|
Where still with calm and portly air, |
|
He faced the foe with visage bare; |
|
As if with baton of command |
|
And vassal chiefs on either hand, |
|
Towering her marshall'd files between, |
|
He Scotland's warden still had been. |
|
This flash of mortal feeling past,— |
|
This gleam of pride, it was the last. |
|
As on the cloud's dense skirt will play, |
|
While the dark tempest rolls away, |
― 78 ―
|
|
One parting blaze; then thunders cease, |
|
The sky is clear, and all is peace. |
|
And he with ready will a nobler head |
|
Than e'er was circled with a kingly crown, |
|
Upon the block to headsman's stroke laid down, |
|
And for his native land a generous victim bled. |
CI.
|
What tho' that head o'er gate or tower, |
|
Like felons on the cursed tree, |
|
Visited by sun and shower, |
|
A ghastly spectacle may be! |
|
A fair renown, as years wear on, |
|
Shall Scotland give her noblest son. |
|
The course of ages shall not dim |
|
The love that she shall bear to him. |
CII.
|
In many a castle, town, and plain, |
|
Mountain and forest, still remain |
― 79 ―
|
|
Fondly cherish'd spots, which claim |
|
The proud distinction of his honour'd name. |
CIII.
|
Swells the huge ruin's massy heap |
|
In castled court, 'tis Wallace's keep. |
|
What stateliest o'er the rest may lower |
|
Of time-worn wall, where rook and daw, |
|
With wheeling flight and ceaseless caw, |
|
Keep busy stir, is Wallace's tower. |
|
If thro' the green wood's hanging screen, |
|
High o'er the deeply-bedded wave, |
|
The mouth of arching cleft is seen |
|
Yawning dark, 'tis Wallace's cave. |
|
If o'er its jutting barrier grey, |
|
Tinted by time, with furious din, |
|
The rude crags silver'd with its sprey, |
|
Shoot the wild flood, 'tis Wallace's lin. |
|
And many a wood remains, and hill and glen |
|
Haunted, 'tis said, of old by Wallace and his men. |
― 80 ―
CIV.
|
There schoolboy still doth haunt the sacred ground, |
|
And musing oft its pleasing influence own, |
|
As, starting at his footsteps echo'd sound, |
|
He feels himself alone. |
CV.
|
Yea, ev'n the cottage matron, at her wheel, |
|
Altho' with daily care and labour crost, |
|
Will o'er her heart the soothing magic feel, |
|
And of her country's ancient prowess boast; |
|
While on the little shelf of treasured books, |
|
For what can most of all her soul delight, |
|
Beyond or ballad, tale, or jest, she looks,— |
|
The history renown'd of Wallace wight. |
CVI.
|
But chiefly to the soldier's breast |
|
A thought of him will kindling come, |
|
As waving high his bonnet's crest, |
|
He listens to the rolling drum, |
― 81 ―
|
|
And trumpet's call and thrilling fife, |
|
And bagpipes' loud and stormy strain, |
|
Meet prelude to tumultuous strife |
|
On the embattled plain. |
CVII.
|
Whether in highland garb array'd, |
|
With kirtle short and highland plaid, |
|
Or button'd close in lowland vest, |
|
Within his doughty grasp, broad sword, or gun be prest,— |
|
Rememb'ring him, he still maintains |
|
His country's cause on foreign plains, |
|
To grace her name and earn her praise, |
|
Led by the brave of modern days. |
CVIII.
|
Such, Abercrombie, fought with thee |
|
On Egypt's dark embattled shore, |
|
And near Corunna's bark-clad sea |
|
With great and gallant Moore. |
― 82 ―
|
|
Such fought with Ferguson and Graham, |
|
A leader worthy of the name, |
|
And fought in pride of Scotland's ancient fame |
|
With firmer nerve and warmer will: |
|
And wheresoe'er on hostile ground, |
|
Or Scot or hardy Celt are found, |
|
Thy spirit, noble Wallace, fighteth still. |
CXIX.
|
O Scotland! proud may be thy boast! |
|
Since Time his course thro' circling years hath run, |
|
There hath not shone, in Fame's bright host, |
|
A nobler hero than thy patriot son. |
CX.
|
Manly and most devoted was the love |
|
With which for thee unweariedly he strove; |
|
No selfish lust of power, not ev'n of fame, |
|
Gave ardour to the pure and generous flame. |
― 83 ―
|
|
Rapid in action, terrible in fight, |
|
In counsel wise, inflexible in right, |
|
Was he, who did so oft, in olden days, |
|
Thy humbled head from base oppression raise. |
|
Then be it by thy generous spirit known, |
|
Ready in freedom's cause to bleed, |
|
Spurning corruption's worthless meed, |
|
That in thy heart thou feel'st this hero was thine own. |
― [84] ―
|