Page:Wallace and Bruce (Edinburgh).pdf/3

 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 th’ 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,