Page:Wallace and Bruce (Edinburgh).pdf/4

 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 woe 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 woe to him whose might would dare, The energies of thy despair! No!—when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast O'er thy land's charter'd 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 thine? 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!