"From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs."—Burns.
Bright gleam'd the skies o'er Scotia's beauteous land, Soft curl'd the wave upon her winding strand; The breeze stole gently o'er the mountains' side, And kiss'd the fragrance of their heather'd pride; Her vales all verdant, as in days of yore, Teem'd with the bounties of their varied store; In rival grandeur from their lowly beds, Her cloud-wrapt summits rear'd their time-worn heads; The sunbeam trembled o'er her lake's blue wave, And sank resistless in the limpid grave; Sweet Nature hover'd o'er the sea-girt land, And strew'd her blessings with creative hand. Yet well the meditative eye might ween Some fearful spell had bound the lovely scene. The blithesome laugh, the mountain-echoed strain, The featly dance, the joyous rustic train, These are the flow'rs whose cluster'd sweets reveal A fertile source, and test a nation's weal; These are the tokens that can best portray The smiles of happiness,—and where were they? Ah! where were they? their jocund days were o'er, And heavily on Scotland's fated shore Its blazon'd pride the despot-banner waves, And spreads its terrors through a land of slaves. Vain all her charms-the wild, the deep-toned wail Of anguish'd bosoms, rolls along the gale; On furrow'd cheek, that ne'er was wet before, The struggling fount of sorrow gushes o'er; And eyes fast fading into death's repose, Shed the last tear-drop for their country's woes. Rise, Scotland, rise! the fearful dream is o'er, Ten thousand voices bid thee weep no more; A dying Wallace spurns the hated thrall, A living Bruce repeats the glorious call; From rock to rock the swelling cry resounds, From hill to hill the pealing thunder bounds; O'er barren wild and verdure-teeming plain, O'er foaming cataract, o'er mountain chain; From Berwick's stream to Kirkwall's lone retreat, From Stirling hill to Rona's wave-worn seat, It comes, it comes—the lethargy is past, 'Tis Freedom's self that peals the stirring blast. Awake, ye heroes, high the flag unfurl, Unchanged in heart, the stern defiance hurl; Pluck from its coward sheath the glitt'ring brand, Crush the foul tyrants of your native land; Rise, conqu'ring warriors—sons of Scotland, rise, Death be the refuge—freedom is the prize! Sweet Bannockburn! the sun's departing beam Flung o'er thy bonny land a ling'ring gleam, And calm and peaceful fell the liquid ray, 'Mid rural scenery and woodland spray: But e'er that beam another day had crown'd, A ghastly ruin mock'd the charms around; The green grass waved along the verdant plain, Another day—'twas crush'd beneath the slain; The streamlet sparkled but the eve before, Another day—'twas red with clotted gore; The wind scarce breathed its melancholy moan. Another day—'twas fraught with dying groan; For England's hosts, and Scotland's patriot band, In deathly struggle trod that fated land. —As black'ning tempests meet at close of day, So met the foes, 'neath evening's mellow'd ray; Yet night's all-spreading shade could scarce restrain The martial fire that throbb'd in ev'ry vein; And ere her solitary hours had sped, The brave De Bohun stain'd a gory bed. The day has dawn'd—the clarion's madd'ning sound, From line to line proclaims the summons round; The Douglas springs exulting from his rest, Loud throbs the heart in Randolph's martial breast; The quiv'ring war-steed hears the noted strain, And feels the wonted fire in ev'ry vein; The glitt'ring falchions flash the pending doom, As bursts the lightning from the tempest-gloom; Pennon and banner float along the plain, Plume nods to plume, and strain responds to strain. Swift as the phantoms of a fairy wand, In serried ranks the marshall'd armies stand; A moment more, and England's proud array, Like surging wave, rolls onward to the fray: But ere they close, o'er Scotland's tartan'd bands, The holy abbot spreads his sacred hands; With helmet doff'd her rev'rent warriors kneel, And breathe a fervent pray'r for Scotland's weal:— 'Tis done, 'tis done! the death-fraught words resound, And death's dark banner wildly waves around. Vain were the task for mortal eye to glean The crowding horrors of the battle-scene: Now madly onward swells the living main, Now back recoils along the thund'ring plain; Surge follows surge across th' affrighted strand, And strews a ghastly wreck along the land. Now gleams the flashing sword athwart the eye, Now blends the death-shriek with the battle cry; Now sinks the rider 'mid the reckless fray, Now speeds the madden'd steed his headlong way: Here breathes the fainting knight his feeble prayer, The dying soldier screams his war-cry there; Unnumber'd arms th' insatiate weapon wield, And rank on rank bestrews the crimson'd field. England's stout archers ply th' unerring string, And missile show'rs their fatal errand wing: But brief their victory—the thoughtful skill Of Scotland's chief had met the pending ill: Forth from the lines the mail-clad horsemen bound, The thund'ring tramp re-echoes o'er the ground: On, on they come! the torrent's wild career Were nought to theirs; a shriek of frenzied fear— A rending shock—and England's stalwart train, One trampled mass besmears the reeking plain. Oh! 'twas a sight might quench the kindling flame That breathes its vigour thro' the warrior's frame: Pale terror rush'd amid the yielding band, Chill'd ev'ry heart, unnerved each iron hand. The Scottish champion mark'd the wild dismay, And eager rush'd to win the dubious day: Swift at his word careers the gallant troop, As drops the soaring hawk in headlong swoop; With reckless hoof they spurn the trampled dead, A moment's pause—and England's army fled. O Death! stern tyrant of our fleeting hours, In thousand shapes thou trick'st thine antic pow'rs; Youth, manhood, age, are all alike to thee, Creation bends beneath the stern decree: All dread thou art, but in the battle-field Supreme thou reign'st, in majesty reveal'd: Thy arm triumphant rules the ghastly day, While vanquish'd armies sink amid the fray. High wax'd thy triumph, loud thy revels rose, When England's warriors fled before their foes. On, on they roll—the mean, the high, the proud, Commingled all—one vast despairing crowd: On, faster on, pursues the storm of war, Swells in the gale, and thunders from afar. Ten thousand arms upraised the blood-stain'd brand, Ten thousand corses strew'd the loathing land: O'erwhelm'd and trampled in the frantic flight, Unnumber'd victims quit the realms of light. A gallant host they cross'd the Scottish pale, A shatter'd few return'd to tell the tale; And far and wide was heralded the fame Of Scotland's liberty, and England's shame. Yet one there was,[1] a heart untaught to yield, That ne'er had brook'd to turn from battle-field; His king, his honour, claim'd his only care, Death was his friend—he sought a triumph there. His monarch safe, he check'd the foam-fleck'd rein, And spurr'd his charger to the field again; Bright flash'd his sword, and stream'd his helmet-plume, As rush'd the warrior to the glorious doom. One gallant cry he gave, one knightly blow, Ere closed the flood around their lonely foe; Awhile he reel'd, in strife convulsive tost, Then slowly sank amid the whelming host. The field was won—the pearly lamp of night In heaven's high dome reveal'd her hallow'd light; And trembling silence sought her tranquil throne, Scared by the battle-din, the dying groan. How changed the scene, since morn's betok'ning ray With redd'ning hues proclaim'd the bursting day! A rescued country greets the conqu'ring band, One mighty rapture fills the mourning land; Triumphant echoes ring from shore to shore, And Scotland's voice proclaims her thraldom o'er. 'Tis joyous there—but sorrow's sickly reign Has cast its gloom o'er England's broad domain; Alas for her!—her brightest hopes are fled, Her smiles are o'er, her fairest flow'rs are dead; Cheerless her homes—her gallant sons are gone, Her gray-hair'd sires, to grief are left alone. Cease, wand'ring Fancy, cease the mournful strain, Nor wake the slumb'ring pang to life again; O leave the past—serener, happier hours Expand their brightness to thy wayward pow'rs; Insatiate war has fled from Britain's shore, Calm'd is dismay, and discord howls no more. See, gently clasp'd in friendship's soft embrace, The sister-climes adorn their ocean-base; Firm as their warriors, as their daughters fair, They brave the storm, the calm united share; So may they stand, and hold their genial sway, While nations fall, and empires melt away; So may they stand, till Heaven's almighty doom Enwrap creation in its destined tomb!
↑Sir Giles d'Argentine.—Scott'sHistory of Scotland.
