The first are in destruction's gorge, Their followers wildly o'er them urge;

The knightly helm and shield, The mail, the acton, and the spear, Strong hand, high heart, are useless here!

Loud from the mass confused the cry Of dying warriors swells on high, And steeds that shriek in agony ! They came like mountain-torrent red That thunders o'er its rocky bed; They broke like that same torrent's

wave

When swallow'd by a darksome cave. Billows on billows burst and boil, Maintaining still the stern turmoil, And to their wild and tortured groan Each adds new terrors of his own!.

XXV.

Too strong in courage and in might Was England yet, to yield the fight.

Her noblest all are here; Names that to fear were never known, Bold Norfolk's Earl De Brotherton,

And Oxford's famed De Vere. There Gloster plied the bloody sword, And Berkley, Grey, and Hereford; Bottetourt and Sanzavere, Ross, Montague, and Mauley, came, And Courtenay's pride, and Percy's fame

Names known too well in Scotland's

war

At Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar,
Blazed broader yet in after years
At Cressy red and fell Poitiers.
Pembroke with these, and Argentine,
Brought up the rearward battle-line.
With caution o'er the ground they
tread,

Slippery with blood and piled with dead,

Till hand to hand in battle set,
The bills with spears and axes met,
And, closing dark on every side,
Raged the full contest far and wide.

Then was the strength of Douglas tried, Then proved was Randolph's generous pride,

And well did Stewart's actions grace The sire of Scotland's royal race!

Firmly they kept their ground; As firmly England onward press'd, And down went many a noble crest, And rent was many a valiant breast, And Slaughter revell'd round.

XXVI.

Unflinching foot 'gainst foot was set, Unceasing blow by blow was met;

The groans of those who fell Were drown'd amid the shriller clang That from the blades and harness rang,

And in the battle-yell.

Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot,
Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot;
And O! amid that waste of life,
What various motives fired the strife!
The aspiring Noble bled for fame,
The Patriot for his country's claim ;
This Knight his youthful strength to
prove,

And that to win his lady's love;
Some fought from ruffian thirst of blood,
From habit some, or hardihood.
But ruffian stern, and soldier good,

The noble and the slave,
From various cause the same wild road,
On the same bloody morning, trode,
To that dark inn, the grave!

XXVII.

The tug of strife to flag begins, Though neither loses yet nor wins. High rides the sun, thick rolls the dust, And feebler speeds the blow and thrust. Douglas leans on his war-sword now, And Randolph wipes his bloody brow; Nor less had toil'd each Southern knight,

From morn till mid-day in the fight. Strong Egremont for air must gasp, Beauchamp undoes his visor-clasp,

And Montague must quit his spear, And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere! The blows of Berkley fall less fast, And gallant Pembroke's bugle-blast

Hath lost its lively tone;

Sinks, Argentine, thy battle-word, And Percy's shout was fainter heard, 'My merry-men, fight on!'

XXVIII.

Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye, The slackening of the storm could spy. 'One effort more, and Scotland's free!

Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee

Is firm as Ailsa Rock;

Rush on with Highland sword and targe,

I, with my Carrick spearmen charge:

Now, forward to the shock !' At once the spears were forward thrown,

Against the sun the broadswordsshone;
The pibroch lent its maddening tone,
And loud King Robert's voice was
known-

'Carrick, press on! they fail, they fail!
Press on, brave sons of Innisgail,
The foe is fainting fast!
Each strike for parent, child, and
wife,

For Scotland, liberty, and life,-
The battle cannot last!'

XXIX.

The fresh and desperate onset bore The foes three furlongs back and more, Leaving their noblest in their gore.

Alone, De Argentine

Fair Edith heard the Southern shout, Beheld them turning from the rout, Heard the wild call their trumpets sent In notes 'twixt triumph and lament. That rallying force, combined anew, Appear'd in her distracted view

To hem the Islesmen round; 'O God! the combat they renew And is no rescue found! And ye that look thus tamely on, And see your native land o'erthrown, O! are your hearts of flesh or stone?'

XXX.

The multitude that watch'd afar,
Rejected from the ranks of war,
Had not unmoved beheld the fight,
When strove the Bruce for Scotland's
right;

Each heart had caught the patriot spark,

Old man and stripling, priest and clerk,
Bondsman and serf; even female hand
Stretch'd to the hatchet or the brand;
But, when mute Amadine they
heard

Give to their zeal his signal-word,
A frenzy fired the throng;
'Portents and miracles impeach
Our sloth-the dumb our duties
teach-

And he that gives the mute his
speech

Can bid the weak be strong. To us, as to our lords, are given A native earth, a promised heaven; To us, as to our lords, belongs Thevengeance for our nation's wrongs; The choice, 'twixt death or freedom,

warms

Renews the ranks where they have

reel'd,

And still makes good the line. Brief strife, but fierce, his efforts raise A bright but momentary blaze.

arms!'

To arms they flew,-axe, club, or

spear,

And mimic ensigns high they rear,
And, like a banner'd host afar,
Bear down on England's wearied war.

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.'

XXXIV.

Bruce press'd his dying hand-its grasp

Kindly replied; but, in his clasp,

It stiffen'd 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 gleam'd, nor mass was
said!'

XXXV.

Nor for De Argentine alone Through Ninian's church these torches shone,

And rose the death-prayer's awful

tone.

That yellow lustre glimmer'd pale
On broken plate and bloodied mail,
Rent crest and shatter'd coronet,
Of Baron, Earl, and Banneret ;
And the best names that England
knew

Claim'd 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 freeborn rights she strove;

Rights dear to all who freedom love, To none so dear as thee!

XXXVI.

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 mountaintop:
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 kneel'd,

Durst not look up, but mutter'd low, Some mingled sounds that none might

know,

And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear, As being of superior sphere.'

XXXVII.

Even upon Bannock's bloody plain, Heap'd then with thousands of the slain,

'Mid victor monarch's musings high, Mirth laugh'd in good King Robert's eye.

'And bore he such angelic air,
Such noble front, such waving hair?
Hath Ronald kneel'd 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 ye 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

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!