And days, prepared a brighter course to run,
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun!
It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth,
O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy North,
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath,
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death;
While the glad voices of a thousand streams,
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams!
But Peace hath nobler changes! O'er the mind,
The warm and living spirit of mankind,
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky(7)
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy,
When holy strains, from life's pure fount which
sprung,
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on its tongue.
And such shall be thy music when the cells,
Where guilt, the child of hopeless misery, dwells,
(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought,
In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,)
Resound to pity's voice; and childhood thence,
Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, Ere the cold blight hath reached its innocence,
To life and hope from desolation start!
She, with a look, dissolves the captive's chain,
Peopling with beauty widowed homes again;
Around the mother, in her closing years,
Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled,
Which vice but breathes on, and its hues are dead,
Shall at the call press forward, to be made
A glorious offering, meet for him, who said,
Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears" Mercy not sacrifice!" and when, of old,
Of the dim past, but winning purer light,
To make the present more serenely bright.
Clouds of rich incense from his altars rolled,
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare
Nor rests that influence here. From clime to The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there! clime,
In silence gliding with the stream of time,
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze
With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas:
And, as heaven's breath called forth, with genial
power,
From the dry wand, the almond's living flower;
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love;
While round its pathway nature softly glows,
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose.
Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice!
Let the far-echoing solitudes rejoice!
When some crowned conqueror, o'er a trampled
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurled,
And, like those visitations which deform
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm
His pathway to Dominion's lonely sphere,
Silence behind,-before him, flight and fear;
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels,
Till each far isle the mighty impulse feels,
And earth is moulded but by one proud will,
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still;
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay
The earthquake homage on its baleful way?
And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper's song Shall the glad harp send up exalting strains,
E'er lightly sped the summer-hours along,
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain source,
Rushing in joy, make music on their course!
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark
The scene of barbarous rites, in ages dark,
And of some nameless combat; Hope's bright eye
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy!
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest,
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast!
Yet shall thy cottage-smoke, at dewy morn,
Rise, in blue wreaths, above the flowering thorn,
And, 'midst thy hamlet-shades, the embosomed spire
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.
Thee too that hour shall bless, the balmy close
Of labour's day, the herald of repose,
Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth
Basks in the blaze of each free village-hearth;
While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales,
And merry England's voice floats up from all her
vales.
Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear.
Oh! if there still be melody on earth,
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth,
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trod,
And the air trembled with the breath of God;
O'er burning cities and forsaken plains?
And shall no harmony of softer close,
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows,
And, mingling with the music of its wave,
Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave?
Oh! there are loftier themes, for him, whose eyes
Have searched the depths of life's realities,
Than the red battle, or the trophied car,
Wheeling the monarch-victor fast and far;
There are more noble strains from those which
swell
The triumphs, Ruins may suffice to tell!
Ye Prophet-bards, who sat in elder days
Beneath the palms of Judah! Ye, whose lays
With torrent rapture, from their source on high,
Burst in the strength of immortality!
Oh! not alone, those haunted groves among,
Of conquering hosts, of empires crushed, ye sung,
But of that Spirit, destined to explore
With the bright day-spring every distant shore,
To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed,
To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed;
With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon's gloom,
And pour eternal starlight o'er the tomb!
And blessed and hallowed be its haunts! for there
Hath man's high soul been rescued from despair →
There hath the immortal spark for Heaven been
There from the rock the springs of life have burst,
Quenchless and pure! and holy thoughts, that rise,
Warm from the source of human sympathies,—
Where'er its path of radiance may be traced,
Shall find their temple in the silent waste.
Note 1, page 173, col. 1.
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled.
Urgentur, ignotique longâ
Nocte, carent quia vate sacro.-Horace. "They had no Poet, and they died."
Note 4, page 173, col. 2.
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone. On the east of Dartmoor, are some Druidical remains, one of which is a Cromlech, whose three rough pillars of granite support a ponderous tablestone, and form a kind of large, irregular tripod.
Note 5, page 173, col. 2.
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height. In some parts of Dartmoor the surface is thickly In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lightstrewed with stones, which, in many instances, ap-ed on all the cairns and eminences around, by pear to have been collected into piles, on the tops priests, carrying sacred torches. All the houseof prominent hillocks, as if in imitation of the na-hold fires were previously extinguished, and those tural Tors. The Stone-barrows of Dartmoor re- who were thought worthy of such a privilege, were semble the Cairns of the Cheviot and Grampian allowed to relight them with a flaming brand, kinhills, and those in Cornwall.-See Cooke's Topo- dled at the consecrated cairn-fire. graphical Survey of Devonshire.
Note 2, page 173, col. 2.
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell.
Note 6, page 174, col. 1.
"T was then the captives of Britannia's war. The French prisoners, taken in the wars with
Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found Napoleon, were confined in a depôt on Dartmoor. upon Dartmoor.
Note 3, page 173, col. 2.
The chieftain's power-they had no bard, and died.
Vixêre fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi: Sed omnes illachrymabiles
Note 7, page 175, col. 2.
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky.
In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national school-house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate the children of convicts.
The Meeting of Wallace and Bruce
ON THE BANKS OF THE CARRON.
fitted by birth and character to maintain the national independence. The enthusiasm of the speaker is said to have made a deep impression on Bruce, who from that time repented of his engagements with Edward, and secretly determined to seize the first opportunity of aiding the cause of his native country.
The Scottish historians describe their hero, | his country, and describing her oppressed state, after the battle of Falkirk, by his military talents as the consequence of being deserted by those and presence of mind, preserving the troops under whom nature and fortune had pointed out, as best his own command, and retreating leisurely and in good order, along the banks of the little river Carron, which protected him from the enemy. They add, that Robert Bruce* appeared on the opposite side of the river, and soon distinguishing the majestic figure of Wallace, he called out to him, and desired a conference. They represent the Scottish hero as seizing this opportunity to awaken the feelings of patriotism in the youthful mind of Bruce; as appealing to him in behalf of
THE morn rose bright on scenes renowned,
Wild Caledonia's classic ground,
*Not Robert Bruce, afterwards king of Scotland, but his Where the bold sons of other days Won their high fame in Ossian's lays,
And fell-but not till Carron's tide
With Roman blood was darkly dyed.
-The morn rose bright, and heard the cry
Sent by exulting hosts on high,
And saw the white-cross banner float
(While rang each clansman's gathering note)
O'er the dark plumes and serried spears
Of Scotland's daring mountaineers,
As all elate with hope, they stood
To buy their freedom with their blood.
The sunset shone, to guide the flying,
And beam a farewell to the dying!
The summer-moon on Falkirk's field,
Streams upon eyes in slumber sealed;
Deep slumber, not to pass away,
When breaks another morning's ray,
Nor vanish when the trumpet's voice
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice:
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath
May chase the still, cold, sleep of Death?
Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stained plaid,
Low are her mountain-warriors laid;
They fell, on that proud soil, whose mould
Was blent with heroes' dust of old,
And guarded by the free and brave,
Yielded the Roman but a grave!
Nobly they fell-yet with them died
The warrior's hope, the leader's pride.
Vainly they fell-that martyr host-
All, save the land's high soul, is lost.
Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep,
Nor see their bleeding country weep;
The shouts, of England's triumph telling,
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling;
And those, surviving to bequeath
Their sons the choice of chains or death,
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 the 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,
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 wo 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 wo to him whose might would dare
The energies of thy despair!
No!-when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast
O'er thy land's chartered 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?
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Far hence, 'midst other heaths and snows
Must Freedom's footstep now repase.
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!
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 Fredom's warning accents vain? No, royal Bruce! within thy breast Wakes each high thought, too long suppressed, 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 of 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. -'T is 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 thy 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!
Hail! and rejoice! thy race shall claim
An heritage of deathless fame,
And Scotland shall arise at length,
Majestic in triumphant strength,
An eagle of the rock, than won
A way, through tempests, to the sun.
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand,
The prophet-spirit of thy land!
By torrrent wave, in desert blast,
Those visions o'er my thoughts have passed,
Where mountain-vapours darkly roll,
That spirit hath possessed my soul,
And shadowy forms have met mine eye,
The beings of futurity;
And a deep voice of years to be,
Hath told that Scotland shall be free.
"He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings!
From thee the Chief, the Avenger springs!
Far o'er the land he comes to save,
His banners in their glory wave,
And Albyn's thousand harps awake
On hill and heath, by stream and lake,
To swell the strains that far around
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound.
And I-but wherefore now recall
The whispered omens of my fall?
They come not in mysterious gloom,
-There is no bondage in the tomb!
O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns,
And earth alone for man hath chains!
What though I perish ere the hour
When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power,
If shed for her, my blood shall stain
The field or scaffold not in vain.
Its voice, to efforts more sublime,
Shall rouse the spirit of her clime,
And in the noontide of her lot,
My country shall forget me not!"
Art thou forgot? and hath thy worth Without its glory passed from Earth? -Rest with the brave, whose names belong To the high sanctity of song, Chartered our reverence to control, And traced in sunbeams on the soul. Thine, Wallace! while the heart hath still One pulse a generous thought can thrill, While Youth's warm tears are yet the meed Of martyr's death, or hero's deed, Shall brightly live, from age to age, Thy country's proudest heritage.
'Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling,
Thy deeds her mountain-winds are telling,
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave,
Thy step hath hallowed rock and cave;
And cold the wanderer's heart must be,
That holds no converse there with thee.
Yet, Scotland! to thy champion's shade,
Still are thy grateful rites delayed.
From lands of old renown, o'erspread
With proud memorials of the dead,
The trophied urn, the breathing bust,
The pillar, guarding noble dust,
The shrine, where art and genius high
Have laboured for Eternity!-
The stranger comes,-his eye explores
The wilds of thy majestic shores,
Yet vainly seeks one native stone,
Raised to the hero all thine own.
Land of bright deeds and minstrel lore!
Withhold the guerdon now no more!
On some bold height of awful form,
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm,
Sublimely mingling with the skies,
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise!
Not to record the name that thrills
Thy soul, the watch-word of thy hills;
Not to assert with needless claim,
The bright for ever of its fame;
But, in the ages yet untold,
When ours shall be the days of old,
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride
In him, for thee who lived and died.
1819.
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