Page:Wallace and Bruce (Edinburgh).pdf/5

 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. E'en I–though on that fatal plain Lies my 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 Freedom's warning accents vain? No! royal Bruce within thy breast Wakes each high thought, too long suppress'd, 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 from 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! —Tis 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 the 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!