Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/47

      Springing from his broken dream
      Darkly wild his elf-locks stream,
      And his smooth tongue vow'd deceitfully,
      But on his lip the falsehood dies,
      The death-flash echoes to the skies,
                  And where is he?—
      Gone to red Comyn's soul!—who sold
      His native land for sordid gold,
         On Falkirk's fatal fields;—
      Gone to black Arnold's tortured ghost,
      Who wandering o'er perdition's coast,
      And beckoning to his spectre host,
                  A traitor welcome yields.

      The warriors turn'd them from the dead,
      In silence sternly back they sped,
            No sign of vengeful joy they made;
         They would not name his name
         Who died that death of shame;
      For in their hearts the trace was strong
      When he to battle led their throng
            And they his word obey'd;
Now shame and sorrow mark'd each manly face,
A chieftain's crime they mourn'd,—a nation's dire disgrace.

         Morn rose upon their voiceless grief,
             When to the front of their array,
         Advanced a hoary-headed chief,
             Sad was his heart that day.—
      "Down, he said,—to the withering tomb,
         The scorner of your law hath gone,
      Our women shall record his doom,
      Blanching with cold and fearful gloom
         The brow of children yet unborn.