And fell-but not till Carron's tide
With Roman blood was darkly dyed.
-The morn rose bright, and heard the cry
Sent by exulting hosts on high,
And saw the white-cross banner float
(While rang each clansman's gathering note)
O'er the dark plumes and serried spears
Of Scotland's daring mountaineers,
As all elate with hope, they stood
To buy their freedom with their blood.
The sunset shone, to guide the flying,
And beam a farewell to the dying!
The summer-moon on Falkirk's field,
Streams upon eyes in slumber sealed;
Deep slumber, not to pass away,
When breaks another morning's ray,
Nor vanish when the trumpet's voice
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice:
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath
May chase the still, cold, sleep of Death?
Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stained plaid,
Low are her mountain-warriors laid;
They fell, on that proud soil, whose mould
Was blent with heroes' dust of old,
And guarded by the free and brave,
Yielded the Roman but a grave!
Nobly they fell-yet with them died
The warrior's hope, the leader's pride.
Vainly they fell-that martyr host-
All, save the land's high soul, is lost.
Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep,
Nor see their bleeding country weep;
The shouts, of England's triumph telling,
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling;
And those, surviving to bequeath
Their sons the choice of chains or death,
May give the slumberer's lowly bier,
An envying glance,-but not a tear.
But thou, the fearless and the free,
Devoted Knight of Ellerslie!
No vassal-spirit, formed to bow
When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow,
No shade of fear, or weak despair,
Blends with indignant sorrow there.
The ray which streams on yon red field,
O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield,
Glitters not there alone, to shed
Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead,
But, where smooth Carron's rippling wave,
Flows near that death-bed of the brave,
Illuming all the midnight scene,
Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien.

But other beams, O Patriot! shine
In each commanding glance of thine,
And other light hath filled thine eye,
With inspiration's majesty.
Caught from the immortal flame divine
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine!

Thy voice a Prophet's tone hath won,
The grandeur Freedom lends her son;
Thy bearing, a resistless power,
The ruling genius of the hour;

And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride,
Whom Carron's waves from thee divide,
Whose haughty gesture fain would seek
To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek,
Feels his reluctant mind controlled
By thine, of more heroic mould;
Though, struggling all in vain to war
With that high mind's ascendant star,
He, with a conqueror's scornful eye,
Would mock the name of Liberty.

-Heard ye the Patriot's awful voice?
"Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice!
Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain,
The harvest of thy battle-plain,
And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot
Eternity shall cancel not?

Rejoice!-with sounds of wild lament,
O'er her dark heaths and mountains sent,
With dying moan and dirge's wail,
Thy ravaged country bids thee hail!
Rejoice!-while yet exulting cries
From England's conquering host arise
And strains of choral triumph tell,
Her royal Slave hath fought too well.
Oh! dark the clouds of wo that rest
Brooding o'er Scotland's mountain-crest;
Her shield is cleft, her banner torn,
O'er martyred chiefs her daughters mourn;
And not a breeze, but wafts the sound
Of wailing through the land around.
Yet deem not thou, till life depart,
High hope shall leave the patriot's heart,
Or courage, to the storm inured,
Or stern resolve, by woes matured,
Oppose, to Fate's severest hour,
Less than unconquerable power.
No! though the orbs of heaven expire,
Thine, Freedom! is a quenchless fire!
And wo to him whose might would dare
The energies of thy despair!
No!-when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast
O'er thy land's chartered mountain-blast,
Then in my yielding soul shall die
The glorious faith of Liberty!"

"Wild hopes! o'er dreamer's mind that rise," With haughty laugh, the Conqueror cries, (Yet his dark cheek is flushed with shame, And his eye filled with troubled flame;) "Vain, brief illusions! doomed to fly England's red path of victory!

Is not her sword unmatched in might?
Her course, a torrent in the fight?
The terror of her name gone forth
Wide o'er the regions of the North?

Far hence, 'midst other heaths and snows,
Must Freedom's footstep now repose.
And thou, in lofty dreams elate,
Enthusiast strive no more with Fate!
'Tis vain-the land is lost and won-
Sheathed be the sword, its task is done.
Where are the Chiefs who stood with thee,
First in the battles of the free?
The firm in heart; in spirit high?
-They sought yon fatal field to die.
Each step of Edward's conquering host
Hath left a grave on Scotland's coast."

"Vassal of England! yes, a grave,
Where sleep the faithful and the brave;
And who the glory would resign
Of death like theirs, for life like thrine?
They slumber-and the stranger's tread
May spurn thy country's noble dead;
Yet, on the land they loved so well,
Still shall their burning spirit dwell,
Their deeds shall hallow minstrel's theme,
Their image rise on warrior's dream,
Their names be inspiration's breath,
Kindling high hope, and scorn of death,
Till bursts, immortal from the tomb,
The flame that shall avenge their doom!
This is no land for chains-away!
O'er softer climes let tyrants sway!
Think'st thou the mountain and the storm
Their hardy sons for bondage form?
Doth our stern wintry blast instil
Submission to a Despot's will?
-No! we were cast in other mould

Than theirs, by lawless power controlled.
The nurture of our bitter sky
Calls forth resisting energy,
And the wild fastnesses are ours,
The rocks with their eternal towers!
The soul to struggle and to dare,
Is mingled with our northern air,
And dust beneath our soil is lying,
Of those who died for fame undying.
Tread'st thou that soil, and can it be
No loftier thought is roused in thee
Doth no high feeling proudly start
From slumber in thine inmost heart?
No secret voice thy bosom thrill,

For thine own Scotland pleading still?
Oh! wake thee yet! indignant claim
A nobler fate, a purer fame,
And cast to earth thy fetters riven,

And take thine offered crown from Heaven!
Wake! in that high majestic lot,
May the dark past be all forgot,
And Scotland shall forgive the field,

Where with her blood thy shame was sealed.
Een I,-though on that fatal plain

Lies inv heart's brother with the slain,

Though, reft of his heroic worth,
My spirit dwells alone on earth,
And when all other grief is past,
Must this be cherished to the last;-
Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne,
With faith unspotted as his own,

Nor in thy noon of fame recall,

Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall."

Still dost thou hear in stern disdain
Are Fredom's warning accents vain?
No, royal Bruce! within thy breast
Wakes each high thought, too long suppressed,
And thy heart's noblest feelings live,
Blent in that suppliant word-"Forgive!
Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done!
Wallace! thy fairest palm is won;
And kindling at my country's shrine,
My soul hath caught a spark of thine.
Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour
Of triumph and exulting power,
Deem not the light of peace could find
A home within my troubled mind.
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen,

Dark, silent, secret, there have been,
Known but to Him, whose glance can trace
Thought to its deepest dwelling-place.
-'T is past, and on my native shore

I tread, a rebel son no more.
Too blest, if yet my lot may be,
In glory's path to follow thee;
If tears, by late repentance poured,
May lave the blood-stains from my sword. '
-Far other tears, O Wallace! rise
From thy heart's fountain to thine eyes,
|Bright, holy, and unchecked they spring,
While thy voice falters, "Hail! my King
Be every wrong, by memory traced,
In this full tide of joy effaced!
Hail! and rejoice! thy race shall claim
An heritage of deathless fame,
And Scotland shall arise at length,
Majestic in triumphant strength,
An eagle of the rock, than won
A way, through tempests, to the sun.
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand,
The prophet-spirit of thy land!
By torrrent wave, in desert blast,

Those visions o'er my thoughts have passed
Where mountain-vapours darkly roll,
That spirit hath possessed my soul,
And shadowy forms have met mine eye,
The beings of futurity;

And a deep voice of years to be,

Hath told that Scotland shall be free.

"He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings! From thee the Chief, the Avenger springs! Far o'er the land he comes to save,

His banners in their glory wave,

And Albyn's thousand harps awake

On hill and heath, by stream and lake,
To swell the strains that far around
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound.
And I-but wherefore now recall
The whispered omens of my fall?
They come not in mysterious gloom,
-There is no bondage in the tomb!
O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns,
And earth alone for man hath chains!
What though I perish ere the hour
When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power,
If shed for her, my blood shall stain
The field or scaffold not in vain.
Its voice, to efforts more sublime,
Shall rouse the spirit of her clime,
And in the noontide of her lot,
My country shall forget me not!"

Art thou forgot? and hath thy worth Without its glory passed from Earth? -Rest with the brave, whose names belong To the high sanctity of song, Chartered our reverence to control, And traced in sunbeams on the soul. Thine, Wallace! while the heart hath still One pulse a generous thought can thrill, While Youth's warm tears are yet the meed Of martyr's death, or hero's deed, Shall brightly live, from age to age, Thy country's proudest heritage.

'Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling,
Thy deeds her mountain-winds are telling,
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave,
Thy step hath hallowed rock and cave;
And cold the wanderer's heart must be,
That holds no converse there with thee.

Yet, Scotland! to thy champion's shade,
Still are thy grateful rites delayed.
From lands of old renown, o'erspread
With proud memorials of the dead,
The trophied urn, the breathing bust,
The pillar, guarding noble dust,
The shrine, where art and genius high
Have laboured for Eternity!-
The stranger comes, his eye explores
The wilds of thy majestic shores,

Yet vainly seeks one native stone,
Raised to the hero all thine own.

Land of bright deeds and minstrel lore.
Withhold the guerdon now no more!
On some bold height of awful form,
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm,
Sublimely mingling with the skies,
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise!
Not to record the name that thrills
Thy soul, the watch-word of thy hills;
Not to assert with needless claim,
The bright for ever of its fame;
But, in the ages yet untold,

When ours shall be the days of old,
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride
In him, for thee who lived and died.
1819.

More lonely now the few bright founts may be, While Ismael's bow is bent in warrior-hands Against the Golden City of the sea :(1)

o'er the deep.

III.

But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling

Free hearts and fearless only may exclude; 'Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, Breaks on the soft repose by Luxury wooed! There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows, And darker hues have stained the marble, strewed

With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose, And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.

IV.

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze,
Remote, yet solemn as the night storm's roar
Through Ida's giant-pines! Across the scas
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore
From Tempe's haunted river to the shore
Of the reed-crowned Eurotas; when, of old,
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er

Th' indignant wave which would not be controlled,

But, past the Persian's chain, in boundless freedom rolled.

V.

And it is thus again!-Swift oars are dashing
The parted waters, and a light is cast
On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden
flashing

Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast.

There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, A music of the deserts, wild and deep, Wakening strange echoes as the shores are past Where low 'midst Ilion's dust her conquerors sleep, O'ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.

VI.

War from the West!-the snows on Thracian hills

Are loosed by Spring's warm breath; yet o'er the lands

Which Hamus girds, the chainless mountain rills

Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. War from the East'-'midst Araby's lone sands,

VII.

Hear yet again, ye mighty!-Where are they, Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown. ed,

Leaped up in proudly beautiful array,
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound
Of Persia's clarion?-Far and joyous round,
From the pine-forests, and the mountain-snows
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound
Of the bright waves, at Freedom's voice they
rose !

-Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's repose?

VIII.

They slumber with their swords!-The olive shades

In vain are whispering their immortal tale!
In vain the spirit of the past pervades
The soft winds breathing through each Grecian
vale,

-Yet must thou wake, though all unarmed and pale,

Devoted City!-Lo! the Moslem's spear, Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear! -Awake and summon those, who yet, perchance, may hear!

IX.

Be hushed, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping!

Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high,
And call on chiefs whose noble sires are sleeping
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry,
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sign
To Syrian gales!-The sons of each brave line,
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry,
And seize the arms which flashed round Salem's
shrine,

And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine !

X.

All still, all voiceless;-and the billows roar
Alone replies!-Alike their soul is gone,
Who shared the funeral feast on Eta's shore,
And theirs, that o'er the field of Ascalon
Swelled the crusader's hymn!-Then gird thou

on

Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour,

Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is done,

With a strong heart; so may thy helmet tower Unshivered through the storm, for generous hope is power!

XI.

But linger not,-array thy men of might!

-That city of the throne and sepulchre
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die!
Heir of the Cæsars! did that lineage high,
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath passed
With its long march of sceptred imagery,(4)
Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast?

XVI

Vain dreams! upon that spirit hath descended Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought

Springs pure and holy! In that eye is blended A spark, with Earth's triumphal memories fraught,

And far within, a deeper meaning, caught From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought (Though through its veil, seen darkly from the dust,)

realms where Time no more hath power upor the just.

XVII.

Those were proud days, when on the battle plain,
And in the sun's bright face, and 'midst th' array
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain,
The Roman cast his glittering mail away,(5)
And, while a silence, as of midnight, lay
O'er breathless thousands, at his voice who start-
ed,

Called on the unseen, terrific powers that sway
The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fear-

less-hearted,

Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed.

XVIII.

But then, around him as the javelins rushed,
From earth to heaven swelled up the loud acclaim;
And, ere his heart's last free libation gushed,
With a bright smile the warrior caught his name,
Far-floating on the winds! And Victory came,
And made the hour of that immortal deed
A life, in fiery feeling! Valour's aim

Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed, Was to be Rome's high star!-He died—and had

his meed.

XIX.

But praise-and dearer, holier praise, be theirs,
Who, in the stillness and the solitude
Of hearts pressed earthwards by a weight of cares,
Uncheered by Fame's proud hope,th' ethereal food
Of restless energies, and only viewed

By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne,
Is on the soul's dark places; have subdued
And vowed themselves, with strength till then

unknown,

To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone.