So say the blushes and the sighs, The tremors that unbidden rise, When, mingled with the Bruce's fame, The brave Lord Ronald's praises came. III. Believe, his father's castle won, And his bold enterprise begun, That Bruce's earliest cares restore The speechless page to Arran's shore; Unnamed, unknown, while Scotland far Resounded with the din of war; And many a month, and many a day, In calm seclusion wore away. IV. These days, these months, to years had worn, When tidings of high weight were borne To that lone island's shore; Of all the Scottish conquests made By the first Edward's ruthless blade, His son retain'd no more, Northward of Tweed, but Stirling's towers, Beleaguer'd by King Robert's powers; And they took term of truce, If England's King should not relieve The siege ere John the Baptist's eve, To yield them to the Bruce. England was roused-on every side To summon prince and peer, P At Berwick-bounds to meet their Liege, Prepared to raise fair Stirling's siege, With buckler, brand, and spear. The term was nigh-they muster'd fast, Forth marshall'd for the field; There rode each knight of noble name, And not famed England's powers alone, And Cambria, but of late subdued, Sent forth her mountain-multitude, And Connoght pour'd from waste and wood Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude Dark Eth O'Connor sway'd. V. Right to devoted Caledon The storm of war rolls slowly on, With menace deep and dread; So the dark clouds, with gathering power, Suspend a while the threaten'd shower, Till every peak and summit lower Round the pale pilgrim's head. Not with such pilgrim's startled eye Resolved the brunt to bide, His royal summons warn'd the land, That all who own'd their King's command Should instant take the spear and brand, To combat at his side. O who may tell the sons of fame, That at King Robert's bidding came, To battle for the right! From Cheviot to the shores of Ross, From Solway-Sands to Marshal's-Moss, All boun'd them for the fight. Such news the royal courier tells, Who came to rouse dark Arran's dells; But farther tidings must the ear Of Isabel in secret hear. These in her cloister walk, next morn, Thus shared she with the Maid of Lorn. VI. My Edith, can I tell how dear Our intercourse of hearts sincere Hath been to Isabel ? Judge then the sorrow of my heart, When I must say the words, We part! The cheerless convent-cell Was not, sweet maiden, made for thee; Go thou where thy vocation free On happier fortunes fell. |