Wallace’s Invocation to Bruce

The morn rose bright on scenes renown’d,Wild Caledonia’s classic ground,Where the bold sons of other daysWon their high fame in Ossian’s lays,And fell--but not till Carron’s tideWith Roman blood was darkly dyed.The morn rose bright--and heard the crySent by exulting hosts on high,And saw the white-cross banner float(While rung each clansman’s gathering-note)O’er the dark plumes and serried spearsOf 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 seal’d;Deep slumber--not to pass awayWhen breaks another morning’s ray,Nor vanish when the trumpet’s voiceBids 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-stain’d plaid,Low are her mountain-warriors laid;They fell, on that proud soil whose mouldWas 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 diedThe 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 hear their bleeding country weep!The shouts of England’s triumph tellingReach not their dark and silent dwelling;And those surviving to bequeathTheir sons the choice of chains or death,May give the slumberer’s lowly bierAn envying glance--but not a tear.

But thou, the fearless and the free,Devoted Knight of Ellerslie!No vassal-spirit, form’d to bowWhen storms are gathering, clouds thy brow;No shade of fear or weak despairBlends 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 shedIts cloudless beauty o’er the dead;But where smooth Carron’s rippling waveFlows near that deathbed of the brave,Illuming all the midnight scene,Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien.But other beams, O Patriot! shineIn each commanding glance of thine,And other fight hath fill’d thine eyeWith inspiration’s majesty,Caught from th’ immortal flame divineWhich 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 seekTo veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek,Feels his reluctant mind controll’dBy thine of more heroic mould:Though struggling all in vain to warWith that high soul’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 the battle-plain,And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spotEternity shall cancel not?Rejoice!--with sounds of wild lamentO’er her dark heaths and mountains sent,With dying moan and dirge’s wail,Thy ravaged country bids thee hail!Rejoice!--while yet exulting criesFrom England’s conquering host arise,And strains of choral triumph tellHer Royal Slave hath fought too well!Oh, dark the clouds of woe that restBrooding o’er Scotland’s mountain-crest!Her shield is cleft, her banner torn,O’er martyr’d chiefs her daughters mourn,And not a breeze but wafts the soundOf 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 dareThe energies of thy despair!No!--when thy chain, O Bruce! is castO’er thy land’s charter’d mountain-blast,Then in my yielding soul shall dieThe glorious faith of Liberty!”

“Wild hopes! o’er dreamer’s mind that rise!”With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries,(Yet his dark cheek is flush’d with shame,And his eye fill’d with troubled flame;)“Vain, brief illusions! doom’d to flyEngland’s red path of victory!Is not her sword unmatch’d in might?Her course a torrent in the fight?The terror of her name gone forthWide 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 that stood with theeFirst 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 hostHath left a grave on Scotland’s coast.”

“Vassal of England, yes! a graveWhere sleep the faithful and the brave;And who the glory would resignOf death like theirs, for life like thine?They slumber--and the stranger’s treadMay 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 stormTheir hardy sons for bondage form?Doth our stern wintry blast instilSubmission to a despot’s will?No! we were cast in other mouldThan theirs by lawless power controll’d;The nurture of our bitter skyCalls forth resisting energy;And the wild fastnesses are ours,The rocks with their eternal towers.The soul to struggle and to dareIs mingled with our northern air,And dust beneath our soil is lyingOf those who died for fame undying.

“Tread’st thou that soil! and can it beNo loftier thought is roused in thee?Doth no high feeling proudly startFrom slumber in thine inmost heart?No secret voice thy bosom thrill,For thine own Scotland pleading still?Oh! wake thee yet--indignant, claimA nobler fate, a purer fame,And cast to earth thy fetters riven,And take thine offer’d crown from heaven.Wake! in that high majestic lotMay the dark past be all forgot;And Scotland shall forgive the fieldWhere with her blood thy shame was seal’d.E’en I--though on that fatal plainLies 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 cherish’d to the last--Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne,With faith unspotted as his own;Nor in thy noon of fame recallWhose 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 breastWakes 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 hourOf triumph and exulting power--Deem not the light of peace could findA home within my troubled mind.Conflicts by mortal eye unseen,Dark, silent, secret, there have been,Known but to Him whose glance can traceThought to its deepest dwelling-place!--’Tis past--and on my native shoreI tread, a rebel son no more.Too blest, if yet my lot may beIn glory’s path to follow thee;If tears, by late repentance pour’d,May lave the blood-stains from my sword!”

Far other tears, O Wallace! riseFrom the heart’s fountain to thine eyes;Bright, holy, and uncheck’d 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 claimA heritage of deathless fame,And Scotland shall arise at lengthMajestic in triumphant strength,An eagle of the rock, that wonA way through tempests to the sun.Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand,The prophet-spirit of thy land:By torrent-wave, in desert vast,Those visions o’er my thought have pass’d;Where mountain vapours darkly roll,That spirit hath possess’d my soul;And shadowy forms have met mine eye.The beings of futurity;And a deep voice of years to beHath told that Scotland shall be free!He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings!From thee the chief, th’ avenger springs!Far o’er the land he comes to save,His banners in their glory wave,And Albyn’s thousand harps awakeOn hill and heath, by stream and lake,To swell the strains that far aroundBid the proud name of Bruce resound!And I--but wherefore now recallThe whisper’d 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 hourWhen Scotland’s vengeance wakes in power?If shed for her, my blood shall stainThe field or scaffold not in vain:Its voice to efforts more sublimeShall 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 worthWithout its glory pass’d from earth?Rest with the brave, whose names belongTo the high sanctity of song!Charter’d our reverence to control,And traced in sunbeams on the soul,Thine, Wallace! while the heart hath stillOne pulse a generous thought can thrill--While youth’s warm tears are yet the meedOf 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 hallow’d rock and cave,And cold the wanderer’s heart must beThat holds no converse there with thee!Yet, Scotland! to thy champion’s shadeStill are thy grateful rites delay’d;From lands of old renown, o’erspreadWith proud memorials of the dead,The trophied urn, the breathing bust,The pillar guarding noble dust,The shrine where art and genius highHave labour’d for eternity--The stranger comes: his eye exploresThe wilds of thy majestic shores,Yet vainly seeks one votive stoneRaised to the hero all thine own.

Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore!Withhold that 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 thrillsThy soul, the watchword 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 prideIn him, for thee who lived and died.

----“Next I’d placeFelicia Hemans, second in the race;I wonder the Reviews, who make such stirOft about rubbish, never mention her.They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding--Mistress Felicia’s works are worth the reading.”