Men too were there, that bore the scars Impress'd in Albyn's woeful wars, At Falkirk's fierce and fatal fight, Teyndrum's dread rout and Methven's flight; And young and old, and serf and lord, And he in many a peril tried, Alike resolved the brunt to bide, And live or die by Bruce's side! XX. Oh, War! thou hast thy fierce delight, Thy gleams of joy, intensely bright! Such gleams, as from thy polish'd shield Such transports wake, severe and high, Amid the pealing conquest-cry; Scarce less, when, after battle lost, Muster the remnants of a host, And as each comrade's name they tell, Vow to avenge them or to die ! Warriors!-and where are warriors found, If not on martial Britain's ground? And who, when waked with note of fire, Love more than they the British lyre?— When, scanty reliques of the train This patriot band around him hung, XXI. 'Tis morning, and the Convent bell Long time had ceased its matin knell, Within thy walls, Saint Bride! An aged Sister sought the cell Assign'd to Lady Isabel, And hurriedly she cried, "Haste, gentle Lady, haste-there waits A noble stranger at the gates; Saint Bride's poor vot'ress ne'er has seen A Knight of such a princely mien ; His errand, as he bade me tell, Is with the Lady Isabel." The princess rose,-for on her knee Low bent she told her rosary,"Let him by thee his purpose teach; I may not give a stranger speech.""Saint Bride forefend, thou royal Maid !" The portress cross'd herself, and said, "Not to be prioress might I Debate his will, his suit deny." "Has earthly show then, simple fool, Power o'er a sister of thy rule, And art thou, like the worldly train, Subdued by splendours light and vain ?” XXII. "No, Lady! in old eyes like mine, Nor grace his rank attendants vain, It is the form, the eye, the word, The bearing of that stranger Lord; Built like a castle's battled wall, Yet moulded in such just degrees, His giant-strength seems lightsome ease. Close as the tendrils of the vine His locks upon his forehead twine, Jet-black, save where some touch of grey Has ta'en the youthful hue away. Weather and war their rougher trace Have left on that majestic face; But 'tis his dignity of eye! There, if a suppliant, would I fly, Secure, 'mid danger, wrongs, and grief, Of sympathy, redress, relief— That glance, if guilty, would I dread More than the doom that spoke me dead !" "Enough, enough," the princess cried, "'Tis Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride! |