Beneath that blow's tremendous sway,
The blood gushed from the wound;
And the grim Lord of Colonsay
Hath turned him on the ground,
And laughed in death-pang, that his blade
The mortal thrust so well repaid.
Now toiled the Bruce, the battle done,
To use his conquest boldly won;
And gave command for horse and spear
To press the Southron's scattered rear,
Nor let his broken force combine,
-When the war-cry of Argentine
Fell faintly on his ear!
"Save, save his life," he cried, "O save
The kind, the noble, and the brave!"-
The squadrons round free passage gave,
The wounded knight drew near.
He raised his red-cross shield no more,
Helm, cuish, and breastplate streamed with gore:
Yet, as he saw the King advance,
He strove even then to couch his lance
The effort was in vain!
The spur-stroke failed to rouse the horse;
Wounded and weary, in mid course
He stumbled on the plain.
Then foremost was the generous Bruce
To raise his head, his helm to loose:-
"Lord Earl, the day is thine !
My Sovereign's charge, and adverse fate,
Have made our meeting all too late:
Yet this may Argentine,
As boon from ancient comrade, crave-
A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave."-
Bruce pressed his dying hand-its grasp
Kindly replied; but, in his clasp,
It stiffened and grew cold-
And, "O farewell!" the victor cried,
"Of chivalry the flower and pride,
The arm in battle bold,
The courteous mien, the noble race,
The stainless faith, the manly face!-
Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine,
For late wake of De Argentine.
O'er better knight on death-bier laid,
Torch never gleamed nor mass was said !"—
Nor for De Argentine alone
Through Ninian's church these torches shone,
And rose the death-prayer's awful tone.
That yellow lustre glimmered pale,
On broken plate and bloodied mail,
Rent crest and shattered coronet,
Of Baron, Earl, and Banneret;
And the best names that England knew,
Claimed in the death-prayer dismal due.
Yet mourn not, Land of Fame !
Though ne'er the leopards on thy shield
Retreated from so sad a field,
Since Norman William came.
Oft may thine annals justly boast
Of battles stern by Scotland lost;
Grudge not her victory,
When for her free-born rights she strove;
Rights dear to all who freedom love,-
To none so dear as thee!
Turn we to Bruce, whose curious ear
Must from Fitz-Louis tidings hear;
With him, a hundred voices tell
Of prodigy and miracle,
"For the mute page had spoke.'
"Page!" said Fitz-Louis, "rather say,
An angel sent from realms of day,
To burst the English yoke.
I saw his plume and bonnet drop,
When hurrying from the mountain top;
A lovely brow, dark locks that wave,
To his bright eyes new lustre gave,
A step as light upon the green
As if his pinions waved unseen!"
"Spoke he with none ?"-"With none-one word Burst when he saw the Island Lord,
Returning from the battle field."
"What answer made the Chief?"-" He kneeled,
Durst not look up, but muttered low,
Some mingled sounds that none might know,
And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear,
As being of superior sphere."
Even upon Bannock's bloody plain,
Heaped then with thousands of the slain,
'Mid victor monarch's musings high,
Mirth laughed in good King Robert's eye.
"And bore he such angelic air,
Such noble front, such waving hair?
Hath Ronald kneeled to him?" he said,
"Then must we call the church to aid-
Our will be to the abbot known,
Ere these strange news are wider blown,
To Cambuskenneth straight he pass,
And deck the church for solemn mass,
To pay, for high deliverance given,
A nation's thanks to gracious Heaven.
Let him array, besides, such state
As should on princes' nuptials wait.
Ourself the cause, through fortune's spite,
That once broke short that spousal rite,
Ourself will grace, with early morn,
The bridal of the Maid of Lorn."
Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous way;
Go boldly forth; nor yet thy master blame,
Who chose no patron for his humble lay,
And graced thy numbers with no friendly name, Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path to fame. There was-and O! how many sorrows crowd Into these two brief words !-there was a claim
By generous friendship given-had fate allowed, It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the proud!
All angel now-yet little less than all,
While still a pilgrim in our world below! What 'vails it us that patience to recall,
Which hid its own, to soothe all other woe; What 'vails to tell, how VIRTUE's purest glow Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair;
And, least of all, what 'vails the world should know, That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair, Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither there!
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