Page:Wallace and Bruce.pdf/13

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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,