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,
Who in the well-fought conflict fell,
Knitting stern brow o'er flashing eye,
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?—
Know ye not, hearts to honour dear!
That joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe,
At which the heart-strings vibrate high,
And wake the fountains of the eye?1
And blame ye, then, the Bruce, if trace
Of tear is on his manly face,
When, scanty relics of the train
That hail'd at Scone his early reign,
This patriot band around him hung,
And to his knees and bosom clung?

Blame ye the Bruce? - his brother blamed.
But shared the weakness, while ashamed,
With haughty laugh his head he turn'd,
And dash'd away the tear he scorn'd.2

'["Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory:

And the brief epitaph in danger's day,

When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exuited now!"

BYRON'S Corsair.]

The kind, and yet fiery character of Edward Bruce, is wel

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 ;

painted by Barbour, in the account of his behaviour after the battle of Bannockburn. Sir Walter Ross, one of the very few Scottish nobles who fell in that battle, was so dearly beloved by Edward, that he wished the victory had been lost, so Ross had lived.

"Out-taken him, men has not seen

Where he for any men made moaning.'

And here the venerable Archdeacon intimates a piece of scandal. Sir Edward Bruce, it seems, loved Ross's sister, par amours, to the neglect of his own lady, sister to David de Strathbogie, Earl of Athole. This criminal passion had evil consequences; for, in resentment of the affront done to his sister, Athole attacked the guard which Bruce had left at Cambuskenneth, during the battle of Bannockburn, to protect his magazine of provisions, and slew Sir William Keith, the commander. For which treason he was forfeited.

In like manner, when in a sally from Carrickfergus, Neil Fleming, and the guards whom he commanded, had fallen, after the protracted resistance which saved the rest of Edward Bruce's army, he made such moan as surprised his followers:

"Sic moan he made men had ferly,*

For he was not customably

Wont for to moan men any thing,

Nor would not hear men make moaning."

* Wonder.

Such are the nice traits of character so often lost in general his

tory.

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?"-

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XXII.

No, Lady! in old eyes like mine, Gauds have no glitter, gems no shine; Nor grace his rank attendants vain, One youthful page is all his train. It is the form, the eye, the word, The bearing of that stranger Lord; His stature, manly, bold, and tall, 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 't is 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,

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""Tis Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride!
To meaner front was ne'er assign'd
Such mastery o'er the common mind
Bestow'd thy high designs to aid,

How long, O Heaven! how long delay'd!-
Haste, Mona, haste, to introduce
My darling brother, royal Bruce!"

XXIII.

They met like friends who part in pain,
And meet in doubtful hope again.

But when subdued that fitful swell,
The Bruce survey'd the humble cell;-
"And this is thine, poor Isabel!-
That pallet-couch, and naked wall,
For room of state, and bed of pall;
For costly robes and jewels rare,
A string of beads and zone of hair;
And for the trumpet's sprightly call
To sport or banquet, grove or hall,
The bell's grim voice divides thy care,
"Twixt hours of penitence and prayer!—
O ill for thee, my royal claim
From the First David's sainted name!
O woe for thee, that while he sought
His right, thy brother feebly fought!"-

XXIV.

"Now lay these vain regrets aside,
And be the unshaken Bruce!" she cried.
"For more I glory to have shared
The woes thy venturous spirit dared,
When raising first thy valiant band
In rescue of thy native land,
Than had fair Fortune set me down
The partner of an empire's crown.
And grieve not that on Pleasure's stream
No more I drive in giddy dream,

For Heaven the erring pilot knew,
And from the gulf the vessel drew,
Tried me with judgments stern and great,
My house's ruin, thy defeat,

Poor Nigel's death, till, tamed, I own,
My hopes are fixed on Heaven alone;
Nor e'er shall earthly prospects win
My heart to this vain world of sin."-

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XXV.

Nay, Isabel, for such stern choice,
First wilt thou wait thy brother's voice;
Then ponder if in convent scene

No softer thoughts might intervene
Say they were of that unknown Knight,
Victor in Woodstock's tourney-fight—
Nay, if his name such blush you owe,
Victorious o'er a fairer foe!"
Truly his penetrating eye

Hath caught that blush's passing dye,-
Like the last beam of evening thrown
On a white cloud,—just seen and gone.