Yes! 'twas sublime, but sad.-The loneliness

Loaded thy heart, the desert tired thine

And strange and awful fears began to press

Thy bosom with a stern solemnity.

eye;

Then hast thou wish'd some woodman's cottage nigh, Something that show'd of life, though low and mean; Glad sight, its curling wreath of smoke to spy,

Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol would have been, Or children whooping wild beneath the willows green.

Such are the scenes, where savage grandeur wakes
An awful thrill that softens into sighs;

Such feelings rouse them by dim Rannoch's lakes,
In dark Glencoe such gloomy raptures rise:
Or farther, where, beneath the northern skies,
Chides wild Loch-Eribol his caverns hoar-
But, be the minstrel judge, they yield the prize

Of desert dignity to that dread shore,

That sees grim Coolin rise, and hears Corisken roar,

II.

Through such wild scenes the champion pass'd,

When bold halloo and bugle-blast

Upon the breeze came loud and fast.

"There," said the Bruce, "rung Edward's horn!

What can have caused such brief return?

And see, brave Ronald, see him dart

--

O'er stock and stone like hunted hart,

Precipitate, as is the use,

In war or sport, of Edward Bruce.

He marks us, and his eager cry

Will tell his news ere he be nigh."—

III

Loud Edward shouts, "What make ye here,

Warring upon the mountain deer,

When Scotland wants her King?

A bark from Lennox cross'd our track,

With her in speed I hurried back,

These joyful news to bring

I

The Stuart stirs in Teviotdale,

And Douglas wakes his native vale;

Thy storm-toss'd fleet hath won its way

With little loss to Brodick-Bay,

And Lennox, with a gallant band,
Waits but thy coming and command

To waft them o'er to Carrick strand.

There are blithe news !-but mark the close!

Edward, the deadliest of our foes,

As with his host he northward pass'd,

Hath on the Borders breathed his last."

IV.

Still stood the Bruce-his steady cheek

Was little wont his joy to speak,

But then his colour rose :..

"Now, Scotland! shortly shalt thou see, With God's high will, thy children free,

And vengeance on thy foes!!

7

Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs,
Bear witness with me Heaven, belongs
My joy o'er Edward's bier;

I took my knighthood at his hand,
And lordship held of him, and land,
And well may vouch it here,'

That, blot the story from his page,

Of Scotland ruin'd in his rage,

You read a monarch brave and sage,

And to his people dear."

"Let London's burghers mourn her Lord,

And Croydon monks his praise record,"

The eager Edward said;

"Eternal as his own, my hate

Surmounts the bounds of mortal fate,

And dies not with the dead!

Such hate was his on Solway's strand,

When vengeance clench'd his palsied hand,

That pointed yet to Scotland's land,

Ás his last accents pray'd

Disgrace and curse upon his heir,

If he one Scottish head should spare,

Till stretch'd upon the bloody lair

Each rebel corpse was laid!

Such hate was his, when his last breath
Renounced the peaceful house of death,
And bade his bones to Scotland's coast

Be borne by his remorseless host,
As if his dead and stony eye

Could still enjoy her misery!

Such hate was nis--dark, deadly, long;

Mine, as enduring, deep, and strong!"

V.

"Let women, Edward, war with words,

With curses monks, but men with swords:

Nor doubt of living foes, to sate

Deepest revenge and deadliest hate.
Now, to the sea! behold the beach,

And see the gallies' pendants stretch