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[Title Page]
BY
IN calling the following pieces Metrical Legends, I do not use the term as denoting fictitious stories, but as chronicles or memorials. The acts of great men, as related in history, are so blended with the events of the times in which they lived, and with the acts of their contemporaries, that it is difficult for a great proportion of readers to form, at the conclusion of the history, a distinct idea of all they have really performed: and even of those who might do so without difficulty, how few bestow their leisure in fairly considering those claims of the great and the good to their respect and admiration! Biography, where sources of inform-
ation regarding the private character and habits of the individual remain, has made amends for this unavoidable defect in history, and is a most instructive and interesting study. Yet the minute detail of the character too often does the same injury to the departed Great, which a familiar acquaintance still oftener does to the living; for a lengthened, unrelieved account is very unfavourable to that rousing and generous admiration which the more simple and distant view of heroic worth is fitted to inspire;-- an impulse most healthful and invigorating to the soul.
Romance, in verse and in prose, has, and often successfully, attempted to supply those deficiencies, by adding abundance of fictitious circumstances to the traces of history and biography--a task pleasing to the writer and the reader. But in her zeal to display the abstract perfections of a hero, she has not rested satisfied with additions; she has boldly and
unwarrantably made use of absolute contradictions to those traces, even when generally known and well authenticated. This is the greatest injury to the Mighty Dead. It is throwing over the venerated form of a majestic man, a gauzy veil, on which is delineated the fanciful figure of an angel. If time has removed that form to such a distance, that a faint outline only can be perceived, let us still behold the outline unshaded and unchanged. "Disturb not the ashes of the dead," is a sentiment acknowledged and obeyed by every feeling mind; but to disturb those memorials of worth--those shadowings of the soul--what may be called their intellectual remains, is by far the greater sacrilege.
My reader must not, however, suppose that I would debar romance from the use of every real name, and oblige her to people her stories entirely with beings fictitious both in name and character. This would be too rigid. Where
history is so obscure or remote, that we know little of a hero but his name, the romance writer may seize it as lawful spoil; for he cannot thereby confuse our ideas of truth and falsehood, or change and deform what has no form. It is only when a character known, though imperfectly, is wrested from the events with which it was really connected, and overlaid at the same time with fanciful attributes, that this can be justly complained of.
Having this view of the subject in my mind, and a great desire, notwithstanding, to pay some tribute to the memory of a few characters for whom I felt a peculiar admiration and respect, I have ventured upon what may be considered, in some degree, as a new attempt,--to give a short descriptive chronicle of those noble beings, whose existence has honoured human nature and benefited mankind.
In relating a true story, though we do not add any events or material circumstances to it,
and abstain from attributing any motives for action, which have not been credibly reported, or may not be fairly inferred, yet, how often do we spontaneously, almost unwittingly, add description similar to what we know must have belonged to the actors and scenery of our story! Our story, for instance, says, "that a man, travelling at night through a wild forest, was attacked by a band of robbers." Our story-teller adds, "that the night was dark as pitch, scarcely a star to be seen twinkling between the drifted clouds; that the blast shook the trees, and howled dismally around him." Our story says, "that hearing the sound of approaching steps, he went behind a tree to wait till the robbers should pass, but unfortunately stumbling, the noise of his fall betrayed him, and he was seized upon, wounded, and stripped of every thing he possessed." Our story-teller adds, (particularly if the subject of the story is known to be of a timid spirit), "that their footsteps
sounded along the hollow ground like the trampling of a host; that he stopped and listened with fearful anxiety; that, on their nearer approach, voices were mingled with the sound, like the hoarse deep accents of a murderer; that he trembled with fear; that, in quitting the path, every black stump or bush seemed to him a man in armour; that his limbs shook so violently, he could not raise his feet sufficiently to disentangle them from the fern and long grass which impeded him," &c. Or our story may say, "that the daughter of a proud chief stole from his castle on a summer morning, and joined her expecting lover in a neighbouring wood." The story-teller says, "she opened the door of her chamber with a beating heart, listened anxiously lest any one should be a-stir in the family; that the sun shone softly through the ruddy air, on the fresh green boughs and dewy-webbed plants as she passed, and that she sighed to think she might never return to the
haunts of her childhood any more." The story says, "she fled with him on horseback;" and the story-teller cannot well say less than, "that he set her on a beautiful steed, which stood ready caparisoned under the trees; that the voice of her lover gave her courage; that they passed over the silent country, in which not even a peasant was to be seen at his early labour, with the swiftness of an arrow, and every stream they crossed gave them confidence of escaping pursuit," &c. And thus our story-teller goes on, being present in imagination to every thing he relates, and describing the feelings, sounds, and appearances which he conceives must naturally have accompanied the different events of his story, almost, as I said before, without being aware that he is taking so much of what he relates entirely for granted.
In imitation then of this human propensity, from which we derive so much pleasure, though mischievous, when not indulged with charity
and moderation, I have written the following Metrical Legends, describing such scenes as truly belong to my story, with occasionally the feelings, figures, and gestures of those whose actions they relate, and also assigning their motives of action, as they may naturally be supposed to have existed.
The events they record are taken from sources sufficiently authentic; and where any thing has been reasonably questioned, I give some notice of the doubt. I have endeavoured to give them with the brief simplicity of a chronicle, though frequently stopping in my course, where occasion for reflection or remark naturally offered itself, or proceeding more slowly, when objects, capable of interesting or pleasing description, tempted me to linger. Though my great desire has been to display such portraitures of real worth and noble heroism, as might awaken high and generous feelings in a youthful mind; yet I have not, as far as I know, im-
puted to my heroes motives or sentiments beyond what their noble deeds do fairly warrant. I have made each Legend short enough to be read in one moderate sitting, that the impression might be undivided, and that the weariness of a story, not varied or enriched by minuter circumstances, might be, if possible, avoided.--It has, in short, been my aim to produce sentimental and descriptive memorials of exalted worth.
The manner of the rhyme and versification I have in some degree, borrowed from my great contemporary Sir Walter Scott; following in this respect, the example of many of the most popular poets of the present day. Let it not, however, be supposed, that I presume to believe myself a successful borrower. We often stretch out our hand for one thing, and catch another; and if, instead of the easy, light, rich, and fanciful variety of his rhyme and measure, the reader should perceive that I have,
unfortunately, found others of a far different character, I ought not to be greatly surprised or offended. But, indeed, I have been almost forced to be thus presumptuous; for blank verse, or heroic rhyme, being grave and uniform in themselves, require a story varied with many circumstances, and would only have added to the dryness of a chronicle, even though executed with a skill which I pretend not to possess. Yet when I say that I have borrowed, let it not be supposed I have attempted to imitate his particular expressions; I have only attempted to write in a certain free irregular measure, which, but for him, I should probably never have known or admired.
These days are rich in Poets, whose fertile imaginations have been chiefly employed in national or Eastern romance; the one abounding in variety of character, event, and description of familiar or grand objects, and enlivened with natural feelings and passions; the other, deco-
rated with more artificial and luxurious description, and animated with exaggerated and morbid emotions, each in its own way continually exciting the interest and curiosity of the reader, and leading him on through a paradise of fairyland. In these days, therefore, legends of real events, and characters already known to the world, even though animated with a warmth of sentiment, and vividness of description far exceeding my ability to give, have not the same chance for popularity which they might formerly have had. I own this, and am willing unrepiningly to submit to disadvantages which arise from such a delightful cause. For who would wish, were it possible, to remove such an impediment for his own convenience! It is better to take a humble place with such contemporaries, than to stand distinguished in a desert place. I only mention this circumstance to bespeak some consideration and indulgence from readers accustomed to such intoxicating entertainment.
The hero of my first legend is one, at the sound of whose name some sensation of pride and of gratitude passes over every Scottish heart. He belongs indeed to the "land of the mountain and the flood," which, till of later years, was considered by her more fertile neighbour as a land of poverty and barrenness; but the generous devotedness of a true patriot connects him with the noblest feelings of all mankind; or if the contemplation of that excellence be more circumscribed, the feeling in his countrymen which arises from it, is for that very reason the deeper and the dearer. The circumstances of the times which followed him,--the continuance of Edward's power in Scotland, destroyed, many years after, by the wisdom and perseverance of a most gallant and popular king, has made the name of Wallace occur but seldom in the regular histories of Scotland, while his great actions are mentioned so carelessly and briefly, that we read them with
disappointment and regret. But when we remember, that, from being the younger son of a private gentleman of small consideration, he became the military leader and governor of the whole nation, whose hereditary chieftains, accustomed to lead their clans to battle, were both proud and numerous, we may well suppose that all related of him by his friend and contemporary, Blair, which makes the substance of the blind Minstrel's poem, is true; or, at least, if not entirely correct, does not exceed the truth.
The mixture of fiction which is found in it, forms no reasonable objection to receiving those details that are probable and coincide with general history and the character and circumstances of the times. To raise his country from the oppression which her nobles so long and so basely endured; to make head against such a powerful, warlike and artful enemy; to be raised by so many hereditary chiefs to be warden or protector of the realm, on whose behalf he,
as a rival power, entered into compacts and treaties with the Monarch, who had England and some fair provinces of France under his dominion, presupposes a fortune and ability in war, joined with talents for governing, equal to all that his private historian or even tradition has ascribed to him. We may smile at the wonderful feats of strength related of him by Blind Harry, and traditionally received over the whole country; but when we consider that his personal acts , when still very young, are the only reason that can be given for attracting so many followers to his command, we must believe that his lofty soul and powerful intellect were united to a body of extraordinary strength and activity. Wallace Wight, or the Strong, is the appellation by which he is distinguished in his own country; and the romantic adventures of a Robin Hood are by tradition fondly joined to the mighty acts of Scotland's triumphant deliverer.
His character and story are in every point of view particularly fitted either for poetry or
romance; yet, till very lately, he has not been
the subject, as far as I know, of any modern
pen. Wallace, or the Field of Falkirk, written
in nervous and harmonious verse, by a genius
particularly successful in describing the warlike
manners and deeds of ancient times, and in
mixing the rougher qualities of the veteran
leader with the supposed tenderness of a lover,
is a poem that does honour to its author and
to the subject she has chosen. Wallace, or the
Scottish Chief, which through a rich variety of
interesting, imaginary adventures, conducts a character of most perfect virtue and heroism
to an affecting and tragical end--is a romance
deservedly popular. This tribute to the name
of Wallace from two distinguished English
women, I mention with pleasure, notwithstanding all I have said against mixing true with
fictitious history.*
Wallace, it must be owned, though several
times the deliverer of his country from the immediate oppression of her formidable enemy, was
cut off in the midst of his noble exertions and
left her in the power of Edward; therefore he
was not, in a full sense, the deliverer of Scotland, which was ultimately rescued from the
yoke by Robert Bruce. But had there been no
Wallace to precede him, in all human likelyhood, there would have been no Bruce. Had
it not been for the successful struggles of the
first hero, the country, with her submissive
nobles, would have been so completely subdued and permanently settled under the iron
yoke of Edward, that the second would never
have conceived the possibility of recovering its
independence. The example set by Wallace,
and the noble spirit he had breathed into his
countrymen, were a preparation--one may
almost say, the moral implements by which the
valiant and persevering Bruce accomplished his
glorious task.
The reader, perhaps, will smile at the earnestness with which I estimate the advantage of having been rescued from the domination of
Edward, now, when England and Scotland are
happily united; making one powerful and generous nation, which hath nobly maintained, for
so many generations, a degree of rational liberty,
under the form of a limited monarchy, hitherto
enjoyed by no other people. But when we recollect the treatment which Ireland received as
a conquered country, and of which she in some
degree still feels the baleful effects, we shall
acknowledge, with gratitude, the blessing of
having been united to England under far different circumstances. Nay, it may not, per-
haps, be estimating the noble acts of William
Wallace at an extravagant rate to believe, that
England as well as Scotland, under Divine Providence, may owe its liberty to him: for, had
the English crown, at so early a period, acquired such an accession of power, it would probably, like the other great crowns of Europe,
have established for itself a despotism which
could not have been shaken.
In comparing the two great heroes of that period, it should always be remembered, that Bruce
fought for Scotland and her crown conjoined;
Wallace, for Scotland alone; no Chronicler or
Historian, either English or Scotch, having
ever imputed to him any but the purest and
most disinterested motives for his unwearied
and glorious exertions.
The hero of my second Legend is Columbus;
who, to the unfettered reach of thought belonging to a Philosopher, the sagacious intrepidity
of a chieftain or leader, and the adventurous
boldness of a discoverer, added the gentleness
and humanity of a Christian. For the first and
last of these qualities he stands distinguished
from all those enterprising chiefs who followed
his steps. The greatest event in the history of
Columbus takes place at the beginning, occasioning so strong an excitement that what follows after, as immediately connected with him,
(his persecution and sufferings excepted,) are
comparatively flat and uninteresting; and then
it is our curiosity regarding the inhabitants and
productions of the new world that chiefly occupy our attention. Landing on some new coast;
receiving visits from the Indians and their Caziques; bartering beads and trinkets for gold or
provisions, under circumstances similar to those
attending his intercourse with so many other
places; nautical observations, and continued
mutinies and vexations arising from the avarice
and ambition of his officers, are the changes
continually recurring. His history, therefore,
circumstantially, rather obscures than displays his greatness; the outline being so
grand and simple, the detail so unvaried and
minute. The bloody, nefarious, and successful
adventures of Cortes and Pizarro, keep their
heroes (great men of a more vulgar cast,) constantly in possession of the reader's attention,
and have rendered them favourable subjects of
history, tragedy, and romance. But the great
consequences and change in human affairs which
flowed from the astonishing enterprise of Columbus, have made his existence as one of the
loftiest landmarks in the rout of time. And he
is a hero who may be said to have belonged to
no particular country; for every nation has felt
the effects of his powerful mind; and every
nation, in the days at least in which he lived,
was unworthy of him. This, notwithstanding
these poetical defects in his story, has prevented
him from being neglected by poets. The first
epic poem produced in the continent which he
discovered, has, with great propriety, Columbus
for its hero; and fragments of a poem on the
same noble subject, published some years ago
in this country, have given us cause to regret,
that the too great fastidiousness of the author
should have induced him to publish fragments
only: a fastidiousness which, on this occasion,
had been better employed, as such a disposition
most commonly is, against others and not himself.
The subject of my third Legend is a woman,
and one whose name is unknown in history.
It was indeed unknown to myself till the publication of Mr. Rose's answer to Fox's History of James II., in the notes to which work a very
interesting account of her will be found, given
in extracts from Lady Murray's narrative, a
MS. hitherto unpublished. My ignorance
regarding her is the more extraordinary, as she
married into a family of my own name, from
which it is supposed, my forefathers took their
descent; one of my ancestors also being the
friend of that Baillie of Jerviswood, who suffered for the religion and independence of his
country, and engaged in the same noble cause
which obliged him, about the time of Jerviswood's death, to fly from Scotland and spend
several years in a foreign land. Had her character, claiming even this very distant and slight
connection with it, been known to me in my
youthful days, I might have suspected that early
association had something to do in the great
admiration with which it has inspired me; but
becoming first acquainted with it when the
season of ardour and enthusiasm is past, I believe
I may be acquitted from all charge of partiality. It appears to me that a more perfect
female character could scarcely be imagined;
for while she is daily exercised in all that is useful, enlivening and endearing, her wisdom and
courage on every extraordinary and difficult
occasion, give a full assurance to the mind, that
the devoted daughter of Sir Patrick Hume,
and, the tender help-mate of Baillie, would have
made a most able and magnanimous queen.
The account we have of her is given by her
own children; but there is a harmonious consistency, and an internal evidence of truth
through the whole of it, which forbids us to
doubt. At any rate, the leading and most
singular events of her life, mentioned in the
inscription on her tomb from the pen of Judge
Burnet, must be true. But after having written
the Legend from Mr. Rose's notes alone, I have
been fortunate enough to see the original work
from which they were taken; and, availing
myself of this advantage, have added some
passages to it which I thought would increase
the interest of the whole, and set the character
of the heroine in a still more favourable light.
For this I am indebted to the kindness and
liberality of Thomas Thomson, Esq. keeper of
the Registers, Edinburgh, who will, I hope,
be induced, ere long, to give such a curious and
interesting manuscript to the public.
I might have selected for my heroine women
who, in high situations of trust, as sovereigns,
regents, and temporary governors of towns,
castles, or provinces, and even at the head of
armies, have behaved with a wisdom and courage
that would have been honourable for the noblest
of the other sex. But to vindicate female
courage and abilities has not been my aim. I
wished to exhibit a perfection of character
which is peculiar to woman, and makes her, in
the family that is blessed with such an inmate,
through every vicissitude of prosperity and
distress, something which man can never be.
He may indeed be, and often is, as tender and
full of gentle offices as a woman; and she
may be, and has often been found, on great
occasions, as courageous, firm, and enterprising,
as a man; but the character of both will be
most admired when these qualities cross them
but transiently, like passing gleams of sunshine
in a stormy day, and do not make the prevailing
attribute of either. A man seldom becomes a
careful and gentle nurse, but when actuated by
strong affection; a woman is seldom roused to
great and courageous exertion but when something most dear to her is in immediate danger:
reverse the matter, and you deform the fair seemliness of both. It is from this general impression
of their respective natures that tenderness in man
is so pathetic, and valour in woman so sublime.
A wise and benevolent Providence hath made
them partake of each other's more peculiar
qualities, that they may be meet and rational
companions to one another--that man may be
beloved, and woman regarded with respect.
What has been considered as the jealousy of
man lest woman should become his rival, is
founded, I believe, on a very different principle.
In regard to mental acquirements of an abstruse
or difficult kind, though a pretty general dis-
approbation of them, when found in the possession of women, is felt, and too often expressed in illiberal and unworthy phrase, yet I
apprehend, that had these been supposed to be
cultivated without interfering with domestic
duties, no prejudice would ever have been
entertained against them. To neglect useful
and appropriate occupations, for those which
may be supposed to be connected with vanity,
rather than with any other gratification, is
always offensive. But if a woman possess that
strong natural bent for learning which enables
her to acquire it quickly, without prejudice to
what is more necessary; or if her fortune be so
ample that the greater part of her time reasonably remains at her own disposal, there are few
men, I believe, who will be disposed to find
fault with her for all that she may know, provided she make no vain display of her acquirements; and amongst those few, I will venture
to say, there will not be one truly learned man
to be found. Were learning chiefly confined to
gownsmen, a country gentleman, who neglected
his affairs and his husbandry to study the dead
languages, would meet with as little quarter as
she who is tauntingly called a learned lady.
But as every one in the rank of a gentleman is
obliged to spend so many years of his youth in
learning Latin and Greek, whatever may be his
natural bias or destined profession, he is never
ridiculed, under any circumstances, for pursuing
that which has already cost him so much labour.
Women have this desirable privilege over the
other sex, that they may be unlearned without
any implied inferiority; and I hope our modern
zeal for education will never proceed far enough
to deprive them of this great advantage. At
the same time they may avowedly and creditably possess as much learning, either in science
or languages, as they can fairly and honestly
attain, the neglect of more necessary occupations being here considered as approaching to a
real breach of rectitude.
"My helpful child!" was the fond and grateful appellation bestowed upon our heroine, with
her mother's dying blessing; and could the
daughters of every family conceive the self-approbation and happiness of cheerful and useful occupation, the love of God and favour of
man which is earned by this blessed character
of helpfulness, how much vanity and weariness,
and disappointment, and discontent, would be
banished from many a prosperous home! "It
is more blessed to minister than be ministered
unto," said the most perfect character that ever
appeared in human form. Could any young
person of ever such a listless or idle disposition,
not entirely debased by selfishness, read, in the
narrative alluded to, of the different occupations
of Lady Griseld Baillie and a sister of hers, nearly
of her own age, whose time was mostly spent in
reading or playing on a musical instrument, and
wish for one moment to have been the last-mentioned lady rather than the other?
But in preferring a heroine of this class for
my Legend, I encountered a difficulty which, I
fear, I have not been able to overcome; the
want of events, and the most striking circumstance of the story belonging to the earlier part
of it, while the familiar domestic details of her
life, which so faithfully reveal the sweetest traits
of her character, are associated in our imaginations with what is considered as vulgar and
mean. I have endeavoured by the selection I
have made of things to be noticed, and in the
expressions which convey them to the fancy, to
offend, as little as might be, the fastidious reader;
and I beg that he will on his part receive it with
indulgence.
Of the few shorter pieces, contained in this
small volume, I have little to say. The two
first were originally written very rapidly for the
amusement of a young friend, who was fond of
frightful stories; but I have since endeavoured
to correct some of the defects arising from hasty
composition. The third is taken from a true,
or at least traditional story. It was told to me
by Sir George Beaumont, as one which he had
heard from his mother, the late Lady Beaumont,
who said it was a tradition belonging to the
castle of some baron in the north of England,
where it was believed to have happened. It
was recommended by him as a good subject for
a ballad, and, with such a recommendation, I
was easily tempted to endeavour, at least, to
preserve its simple and striking circumstances,
in that popular form. I have altered nothing
of the story; nor have I added anything but the
founding of the abbey and the baron's becoming
a monk, in imitation of the ending of that exquisite ballad, The Eve of St. John, where so
much is implied in so few words; the force and
simplicity of which I have always particularly
admired, though I readily own (and the reader
will have too much reason to agree with me)
that it is more easily admired than imitated.
"There is a nun in Dryburgh bower
That nun who ne'er beholds the day, The fourth is taken from the popular story of
Fadon, in the Blind Minstrel's Life of Wallace.
That the hero, in those days of superstition, and
under the influence of compunction for a hasty
deed, might not have had some strong vision or
dream which, related to his followers, might
give rise to such a story, I will not pretend to
say. However, it could not with propriety find
a place in a legend which rejects fiction. Yet,
thinking it peculiarly fitted for the subject of
a mysterious ballad, and being loth to lose it
entirely, I have ventured to introduce it to the
reader in its present form. Ballads of this
character generally arrest the attention and
excite some degree of interest. They must be
very ill-written indeed if this fail to be the case;
and if some modern ballads of extraordinary
power, from a very witching pen, have not
rendered the public less easy to please than they
formerly were, I may hope that these productions, slight as they are, will at least be received
with forbearance.
Having now said all which, I believe, I may
reasonably say in explanation and behalf of the
contents of my book, I leave my reader to
peruse it, perhaps, in nearly the same disposition regarding it as if I had said nothing at
all on the subject. But I have the satisfaction,
at least, of having endeavoured to do justice to
myself, and shall not be condemned unheard.
INSENSIBLE
to high heroic deeds,
If such there be, still let him plod
Come, youths, whose eyes are forward cast,
Come ye, whose manly strength with pride
Scotland, with breast unmail'd, had sheath'd her sword,
Where her quell'd chiefs must tamely bear
Baron brave and girded knight,
Turn'd to the sun his daring eye,
Oh! who so base as not to feel
Yes, Caledonian hearts did burn,
And, bold upon some future day,
But in the woods of Allerslie,
Which helm'd his brow, and glav'd his hand,
'Tis pleasant in his early frolick feats,
Till sunk the boiling gulf beneath,
When still, as foeman cross'd his way,
There is a melancholy pleasure
As light'ning from some twilight cloud,
But rose at length with swelling fame
Lenox, Douglas, Campbell, Hay,
Thus grown to strength, on Biggar's well-fought field
Did to superior skill and valour yield,
Then at the Forest kirk, that spot of ground
There, midmost in the warlike throng,
O for some magic power to give
Behold! like changeful streamers of the North,
As he who feels, with up-rais'd eye,
Warden of Scotland, (not ashamed
This truth full well King Edward knew,
Scanning with wary, wise debate
The Southron rulers, phrasing fair
Ent'ring the fatal Barns, fair sight!
"My friends, my kinsmen, war-mates, bold and true!
The hero turn'd his chafing steed,
In Ayr the guilty Southrons held a feast,
But ere beneath the cottage thatch
The dense, dun smoke was mounting slow
From the scorch'd and crackling pile
Thus rose and fell the flaming surgy flood,
And dreadful are the deaths, I ween,
But what dark figures now emerge
Whose clashing arms rang Southron's knell,
And he like heaven's impetuous blast
Nor paused he there, for ev'ning tide
E'en runlet low, and sluggish burn,
O'er Stirling's towers his standard plays,
But there his eager hopes are crost,
"It numbers thirty thousand men,
But higher tower'd the chieftain's head,
Nor dull of heart, nor slow were they
Behind them lay the hardy north;
While higher on the firm-based rock,
Such was the field on which with dauntless pride
And soon upon the bridge appears,
Now, with notes of practis'd skill,
Then many a high-plumed gallant rear'd his head,
His soldiers, firm as living rock,
And watch'd their chieftain's keen looks glancing
For what of thrilling sympathy,
The yearnings of domestic bliss,
Few words the lofty hero utter'd,
Then rush'd they fiercely on their foes,
Spears cross'd spears, a bending grove,
Long penants, flags, and banners move
Opposing ranks, that onward bore,
But where the mighty Wallace fought,
Recoil'd aghast the helmed throng,
And yet, all Southrons as they were,
Clutching each floating thing in vain,
And there, upon that field--a bloody field,
At the glad news, half from the ground
With rueful eyes the wreck of that dire hour,
Of foes so long detested,--fear'd,
Nor slave nor tyrant there appear'd;
The peasant's cot and homely farm,
And look'd at oft and wisely spared,
In castle hall with open gate,
The stranger guest bade to her board
Neighbours with neighbours join'd, begin
The falkner keen his bird lets fly,
Thus, freedom from a grievous yoke,
So, when thro' forest wild hath past
And there, I trow, for many months they took
Edward, meantime, asham'd and wroth
But Wallace, on the day appointed,
And cross'd with dew-webs wiry sheen,
As broad-wing'd hawk keeps soaring high,
And martial'd on the northern side,
Thus on the field with clans and liegemen good,
That Warden was the noblest man
Who had not cried, that look'd upon
And thus did he to Wallace yield,
Scotland thus, from foes secure,
In gallant ship, whose penants play,
And they upon the ocean met
And there disdained not to crave
And nobly in the lists of France,
But English Edward, tired the while
Brave hearts, who had in secret burn'd,
It was a sight to chase despair,
"The valiant heart despaireth never;
And he this flatt'ring hope pursued,
Fife from the enemy he won,
In all the southern shires; and then
But the oppressor, blushing on his throne
But there with valiant foe to cope,
But envy of a hero's fame,
That, with the lust of power combin'd,
"Must noble chiefs of high degree,
"I stood," said Wallace "for the right,
With flashing eye, and dark red brow,
And slowly from the field withdrew;
To them it was a strange and irksome sight,
It hath been said, that gifted seer,
In seeming armour braced with sword and spear,
So Wallace and his faithful band survey'd
Of hostile strength did stoutly breast,
But, ah! that fatal vow, that pride
Taking from wretched thrals, of woman born,
Then rose he, like a rushing wind,
And second still to Wallace wight
But how shall verse feign'd accents borrow,
The look that ev'n thro' writhing pain,
Too bold it were for me to tell,
The white churn'd foam with angry bray,
And there, 'tis said, the Bruce descried
"Ho, chieftain!" said the princely slave,
"Think'st thou the Scottish crown to wear,
"No!" Wallace answer'd; "I have shewn
"And Scotland hath confirm'd it.--No;
Deep blush'd the Bruce, shame's conscious glow
But fleeting was the mighty tyrant's boast,
Hath Wallace round his standard drawn,
So many Southrons there were slain,
Then Wallace thought from tower and town
Then to St. Johnston, at his call,
Who on the pressing summons wait,
And thus did Scottish lords requite
Like dank mould on the marble tomb,
And he with heavy heart his native shore
St. Johnston's leaguered walls at length
Then Edward thought the chief to gain,
"Yea, ev'n the touch of bondsman's chain,
But ah! the fated hour drew near
At sight of noble Wallace bound,
Thus on to London they have past,
The hero; where, in silent gloom,
His fetter'd hands support a head,
Lonely and dark, unseen of man,
"It hath not to this arm been given
"And blest be he, who nobly draws
Perhaps his vision'd eye might turn
And much he strove with Christian grace,
Meekly he bow'd o'er bead and book,
But when he on the scaffold stood,
One parting blaze; then thunders cease,
What tho' that head o'er gate or tower,
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Ne'er looks upon the sun;
There is a monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.
That monk who speaks to none,
That nun was Smaylho'mes lady gay,
That monk the bold baron."
Page xxxvi
ERRATA.
Page [1]
A
METRICAL LEGEND
OF
WILLIAM WALLACE.
Page [2]
Page [3]
WILLIAM WALLACE.
I.
Is there a spirit clothed in mortal weeds,
Who at the Patriot's moving story,
Devoted to his country's good,
Devoted to his country's glory,
Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood;--
List'neth not with breath heaved high,
Quiv'ring nerve, and glistening eye,
Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame,
That with the hero's worth may humble kindred claim?
Page 4
On the dull foggy paths of care,
Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod
To view creation fair:
What boots to him the wond'rous works of God?
His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthy lair.
II.
And in the future see the past,--
The past, as winnow'd in the early mind
With husk and prickle left behind!
Come; whether under lowland vest,
Or, by the mountain-tartan prest,
Your gen'rous bosoms heave;
Pausing a while in thoughtful rest,
My legend lay receive.
Come, aged sires, who love to tell
What fields were fought, what deeds were done;
What things in olden times befell,--
Those good old times, whose term is run!
Page 5
Is breasting now the present tide
Of worldly strife, and cast aside
A hasty glance at what hath been!
Come, courtly dames, in silken sheen,
And ye, who under thatched roofs abide;
Yea, ev'n the barefoot child by cottage fire,
Who doth some shreds of northern lore acquire,
By the stirr'd embers' scanty light,--
List to my legend lay of Wallace wight.
III.
Stifling each rising curse and hopeless prayer,
And sunk beneath the Southron's faithless lord
In sullen, deep despair.
The holds and castles of the land
Were by her hateful foemen mann'd.
To revels in each stately hall,
Did tongues of foreign accent call,
Page 6
From braggard pride the taunting jeer.
Her harvest-fields, by strangers reap'd,
Were in the stranger's garner heap'd
The tenant of the poorest cot,
Seeing the spoiler from his door
Bear unreproved his hard-earn'd store,
Blush'd thus to be, and be a Scot.
The very infant, at his mother's beck,
Tho' with writh'd lip and scowling eye,
Was taught to keep his lisping tongue in check,
Nor curse the Southron passing by.
IV.
The tyrant's hireling slaves could be;
Nor graced their state, nor held their right.
Alone upon his rocky height,
The eagle rear'd his unstain'd crest,
And soaring from his cloudy nest,
Page 7
And wing'd at will the azure sky,
For he alone was free.
V.
The pride of freedom once enjoy'd,
Tho' hostile gold or hostile steel
Have long that bliss destroy'd!
The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt
Of independent sires, who bore
Names known to fame in days of yore,
'Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt;
But recent freedom lost--what heart
Can bear the humbling thought--the quick'ning, mad'ning smart!
VI.
And their base chain in secret spurn;
Page 8
Swore to assert Old Scotland's native sway;
But 'twas in fitful thoughts that pass'd in thought away.
Tho' musing in lone cave or forest deep,
Some generous youths might all indignant weep;
Or in the vision'd hours of sleep,
Gird on their swords for Scotland's right,
And from her soil the spoiler sweep,
Yet all this bold emprise pass'd with the passing night.
VII.
Within the walls of good Dundee,
Or by the pleasant banks of Ayr,
Wand'ring o'er heath or upland fair,
Existed worth without alloy,
In form a man, in years a boy,
Whose nightly thoughts for Scotland's weal,
Which clothed his form in mimick steel,
Page 9
To drive the tyrant from the land,
Pass'd not away with passing sleep;
But did, as danger nearer drew,
Their purpos'd bent the firmer keep,
And still the bolder grew.
VIII.
Which fond tradition long and oft repeats,
The op'ning of some dauntless soul to trace,
Whose bright career of fame, a country's annals grace;
Yet this brief legend must forbear to tell
The bold adventures that befell
The stripling Wallace, light and strong,
The shady woods of Clyde among,
Where, roaring o'er its rocky walls,
The water's headlong torrent falls,
Full, rapid, powerful, flashing to the light,
Page 10
It mounts again like snowy wreath,
Which, scatter'd by contending blasts,
Back to the clouds their treasure casts,
A ceaseless wild turmoil, a grand and wondrous sight!
Or, climbing Carthland's Craigs, that high
O'er their pent river strike the eye,
Wall above wall, half veil'd, half seen,
The pendant folds of wood between,
With jagged breach, and rift, and scar,
Like the scorch'd wreck of ancient war,
And seem, to musing fancy's gaze,
The ruin'd holds of other days.
His native scenes, sublime and wild,
Where oft the youth his hours beguil'd,
As forester with bugle horn;
As angler in the pooly wave;
As fugitive in lonely cave,
Forsaken and forlorn!
Page 11
Alone, defenceless, or at bay,
He raised his arm for freemen's right,
And on proud robbers fell the power of Wallace wight.
IX.
In tales of hapless love;--a treasure
From which the sadden'd bosom borrows
A short respite from present sorrows,
And ev'n the gay delight to feel,
As down young cheeks the soft tears steal;
Yet will I not that woeful tale renew,
And in light hasty words relate
How the base Southron's arm a woman slew,
And robb'd him of his wedded mate.
The name of her, who shar'd his noble breast,
Shall be remember'd and be blest.
A sweeter lay, a gentler song,
To those sad woes belong!
Page 12
X.
At first but like a streaky line
In the hush'd sky, with fitful shine
Its unregarded brightness pours,
Till from its spreading, darkly volumed shroud
The bursting tempest roars;
His countrymen with faithless gaze
Beheld his valour's early blaze.
XI.
The honours of his deathless name;
Till, to the country's farthest bound,
All gen'rous hearts stirr'd at the sound;
Then Scotland's youth with new-wak'd pride,
Flock'd gladly to the hero's side,
In harness braced, with burnish'd brand,
A brave and noble band!
Page 13
XII.
Boyd, Scrimger, Ruthven, Haliday,
Gordon, Crawford, Keith, were there;
Lander, Lundy, Cleland, Kerr,
Steven, Ireland's vagrant lord;
Newbiggen, Fraser, Rutherford,
Dundas and Tinto, Currie, Scott;
Nor be in this brave list forgot
A Wallace of the hero's blood,
With many patriots staunch and good;
And first, though latest nam'd, there came,
Within his gen'rous breast to hold
A brother's place,--true war-mate bold!
The good, the gallant Graham.
XIII.
He made on marshall'd host his first essay;
Where Edward's gather'd powers, in strong array,
Page 14
And gain'd the glorious day.
XIV.
Long to be honour'd, flush'd with victory,
Crowded the Scottish worthies, bold and free,
Their noble chieftain round;
Where many a generous heart beat high
With glowing cheek and flashing eye,
And many a portly figure trod
With stately steps the trampled sod.
Banners in the wind were streaming;
In the morning light were gleaming
Sword, and spear, and burnish'd mail
And crested helm, and avantail,
And tartan plaids, of many a hue,
In flickering sunbeams brighter grew,
While youthful warriors' weapons ring
With hopeful, wanton brandishing.
Page 15
XV.
Stood William Wallace, tall and strong;
Towering far above the rest,
With portly mien and ample breast,
Brow and eye of high command,
Visage fair, and figure grand:
Ev'n to the dullest peasant standing by,
Who fasten'd still on him a wondering eye,
He seem'd the master-spirit of the land.
XVI.
In vision'd form what then did live!
That group of heroes to pourtray,
Who from their trammell'd country broke
The hateful tyrant's galling yoke
On that eventful day!
Page 16
XVII.
Which tinge at times the wintry night,
With many hues of glowing light,
Their momentary forms break forth
To Fancy's gifted sight.
Each in his warlike panoply
With sable plumage waving high,
And burnish'd sword in sinewy hand,
Appears a chieftain of command,
Whose will, by look or sign to catch,
A thousand eager vassals watch.
What tho' those warriors, gleaming round,
On peaceful death-bed never lay,
But each, upon his fated day,
His end on field or scaffold found;
Oh! start not at the vision bright,
As if it were a ghastly sight!
For, 'midst their earthly coil, they knew
Feelings of joy so keen, so true,
Page 17
Thanks Heaven for life, and cannot rue
The gift, be what it may the death that he shall die.
XVIII.
A native right of rule to own
In worth and valour matchless shown)
They William Wallace there proclaim'd;
And there, exultingly, each gallant soul,
Ev'n proudly yielded to such high controul.
Greater than aught a tyrant ere achieved,
Was power so given, and so receiv'd.
XIX.
And back his scatter'd host he drew,
Suing for peace with prudent guile;
And Wallace in his mind, the while,
Page 18
The various dangers of the state,
Desire of further high revenge foregoes
To give the land repose.
But smother'd hatred, in the garb of peace,
Did not, mean time, from hostile cunning cease;
But still more cruel deeds devis'd,
In that deceitful seeming guised.
XX.
Their notice, summon'd lord, and laird, and knight,
To hold with them an ancient court of right,
At the good town, so named, their court of Ayr.
And at this general summons came
The pride and hope of many a name,
The love and anxious care of many a gentle dame.
Page 19
XXI.
Went one by one the manly train,
But neither baron, laird, nor knight,
Did e'er return again.
A heaven-commission'd friend that day
Stopp'd Wallace, hast'ning on his way,
(Who, by some seeming chance detain'd,
Had later at his home remain'd,)
The horse's bridle sternly grasp'd,
And then for rueful utterance gasp'd.
"Oh! go not to the Barns of Ayr!
"Kindred and friends are murder'd there.
"The faithless Southrons, one by one,
"On them the hangman's task hath done.
"Oh! turn thy steed, and fearful ruin shun!"
He, shudd'ring, heard, with visage pale,
Which quickly chang'd to wrath's terrific hue;
And then apace came sorrow's bursting wail;
The noble heart could weep that could not quail,
Page 20
"Met ye a villain's end! Oh is it so with you!"
XXII.
And to the wild woods bent his speed.
But not to keep in hiding there,
Or give his sorrow to despair,
For the fierce tumult in his breast
To speedy, dreadful action press'd.
And there within a tangled glade,
List'ning the courser's coming tread,
With hearts that shar'd his ire and grief,
A faithful band receiv'd their chief.
XXIII.
When that dire day its direful course had run,
And laid them down, their weary limbs to rest
Where the foul deed was done.
Page 21
Cocks had crow'd the second watch;
When sleepers breathe in heavy plight,
Press'd with the visions of the night,
And spirits, from unhallow'd ground,
Ascend, to walk their silent round;
When trembles dell or desert heath,
The witches' orgy dance beneath,--
To the roused Warder's fearful gaze,
The Barns of Ayr were in a blaze.
XXIV.
And stately, from the flaming wreck below,
And mantling far aloft in many a volumed wreath;
Whilst town and woods, and ocean wide did lye,
Tinctur'd like glowing furnace-iron, beneath
Its awful canopy.
Red mazy sparks soon with the dense smoke blended,
And far around like fiery sleet descended.
Page 22
Fierce burst the growing flames the while;
Thro' creviced wall and buttress strong,
Sweeping the rafter'd roofs along;
Which, as with sudden crash they fell,
Their raging fierceness seem'd to quell,
And for a passing instant spread
O'er land and sea a lurid shade;
Then with increasing brightness, high
In spiral form, shot to the sky
With momentary height so grand,
That chill'd beholders breathless stand.
XXV.
'Till fencing round the gulphy light,
Black, jagg'd, and bare, a fearful sight!
Like ruin grim of former days,
Seen 'thwart the broad sun's setting rays,
The guilty fabric stood.
Page 23
XXVI.
Which midst that fearful wreck have been.
The pike and sword, and smoke and fire,
Have minister'd to vengeful ire.
New-waked wretches stood aghast
To see the fire-flood in their rear,
Close to their breast the pointed spear,
And in wild horror yell'd their last.
XXVII.
From the dread gulph and cross the light,
Appearing on its fearful verge,
Each like an armed sprite?
Whilst one above the rest doth tower,--
A form of stern gigantic power,
Whirling from his lofty stand
The smold'ring stone or burning brand?
Those are the leagued for Scotland's native right,
Page 24
When to their fearful work they fell,--
That form is Wallace wight.
XXVIII.
Which stops not on its mission'd way,
By early morn, in strong array,
Onward to Glasgow past;
Where English Piercy held the rule;
Too noble and too brave to be a tyrant's tool.
A summon'd court should there have been,
But there far other coil was seen.
With fellest rage, in lane and street,
Did harnass'd Scot and Southron meet;
Well fought and bloody was the fierce afray:
But Piercy was by Wallace slain,
Who put to rout his num'rous train,
And gain'd the town by noon of day.
Page 25
XXIX.
Saw him at Bothwel's hostile gate,
Which might not long assault abide,
But yielded to its fate.
And on from thence, with growing force,
He held his rapid, glorious course;
Whilst his roused clansmen, braced and bold,
As town and castle, tower and hold,
To the resistless victor fell,
His patriot numbers swell.
Thus when with current full and strong,
The wintry river bears along
Thro' mountain pass, and frith, and plain;--
Streams that from many sources pour,
Answer from far its kindred roar,
And deep'ning echoes roar again.
From its hill of heathy brown,
The muirland streamlet hastens down;
The mountain torrent from its rock,
Shoots to the glen with furious shock;
Page 26
Speed to their chief with many a mazy turn,
And in his mingled strength, roll proudly to the main.
XXX.
Lorn owns his rule, Argyle obeys.
In Angus, Merns, and Aberdeen,
Nor English Lord nor Cerf is seen;
Dundee alone averts King Edward's fate,
And Scotland's warden thunders at her gate.
XXXI.
For news are brought of English host,
Which fast approaching thro' the land,
At Stirling mean to make their stand.
Faint speaks the haggard breathless scout,
Like one escaped from bloody rout,--
"On, Cressingham and Warren lead
"The martial'd host with stalwart speed,
Page 27
"And thine, bold chieftain, only ten."
XXXII.
Broad grew his breast with ampler spread;
O'er cheek and brow the deep flush past,
And to high heaven his eyes he cast:
Right plainly spoke that silent prayer,
"My strength and aid are there!"
Then look'd he round with kindly cheer
On his brave war-mates standing near,
Who scann'd his face with eager eye
His secret feelings to descry.
"Come Hearts! who, on your native soil,
"For Scotland's cause have bravely stood,
"Come, brace ye for another broil,
"And prove your generous blood.
"Let us but front the tyrant's train,
"And he who lists may count their numbers then."
Page 28
XXXIII.
Their noble Leader to obey.
Cheer'd with loud shouts he gave his prompt command,
Forthwith to bound them on their way.
And straight their eager march they take
O'er hill and heath, o'er burn and brake,
Till marshall'd soon in dark array,
Upon their destin'd field of war they stand.
XXXIV.
Before, the slowly winding Forth
Flow'd o'er the noiseless sand;
Its full broad tide with fossy sides,
Which east and west the land divides,
By wooden bridge was spann'd.
Beyond it, on a craggy slope,
Whose chimney'd roofs the steep ridge cope,
There smoked an ancient town;
Page 29
Which oft had braved war's thunder-shock,
Embattled turrets frown.
A frith, with fields and woods, and hamlets gay,
And mazy waters, slyly seen,
Glancing thro' shades of Alder green,
Wore eastward from the sight to distance grey;
While broomy knoll and rocky peak,
And heathy mountains, bare and bleak,
A lofty screen on either hand,
Majestic rose, and grand.
XXXV.
They did their coming foe abide;
Nor waited long till from afar
Were spy'd their moving ranks of war,
Like rising storm, which, from the western main,
Bears on in seried length its cloudy train;--
Slowly approaching on the burthen'd wind,
Moves each dark mass, and still another lowers behind.
Page 30
Darkly rising on the light,
Nodding plumes and pointed spears,
And, crowding close, full many a warlike knight,
Who from its narrow gorge successive pour
To form their ranks upon the northern shore.
XXXVI.
English trumpets, sounding shrill,
The battle's boastful prelude give
Which answer prompt and bold receive
From Scottish drum's long rowling bent,
And,--sound to valiant clansmen sweet!--
The highland pipe, whose lengthen'd swell
Of warlike pibroch, rose and fell,
Like wailings of the midnight wind,
With voice of distant streams combin'd,
While mountain, rock, and dell, the martial din repeat.
Page 31
XXXVII.
And proudly smote the ground with firmer tread,
Who did, ere close of ev'ning, lye
With ghastly face turn'd to the sky,
No more again the rouse of war to hear.
And many for the combat burn'd,
Who never from its broil return'd,
Kindred or home to cheer.
How short the term that shall divide
The firm-nerv'd youth's exerted force,--
The warrior, glowing in his pride,
From the cold stiffen'd corse!
A little term, pass'd with such speed,
As would in courtly revel scarce suffice,
Mated with lady fair, in silken guise,
The measur'd dance to lead.
XXXVIII.
Now braced them for the battle's shock;
Page 32
From marshall'd clans to foes advancing;
Smiled with the smile his eye that lighten'd,
Glow'd with the glow his brow that brighten'd:
But when his burnish'd brand he drew,
His towering form terrific grew,
And every Scotchman, at the sight,
Felt thro' his nerves a giant's might,
And drew his patriot sword with Wallace Wight.
XXXIX.
Did e'er in human bosom vye
With that which stirs the soldier's breast,
When, high in god-like worth confest,
Some noble leader gives command,
To combat for his native land?
No; friendship's freely-flowing tide,
The soul expanding; filial pride,
That hears with craving, fond desire
The bearings of a gallant sire;
Page 33
Ev'n love itself will yield to this.
XL.
But deep response was widely mutter'd,
Like echo'd echoes, circling round
Some mountain lake's steep rocky bound.
XLI.
And loud o'er drum and war-pipe rose
The battle's mingled roar.
The eager shout, the weapon's clash;
The adverse rank's first closing crash,
The sullen hum of striving life,
The busy beat of trampling strife,
From castle, rocks, and mountains round,
Down the long firth, a grand and awful sound,
A thousand echoes bore.
Page 34
XLII.
As front to front the warriors strove.
Thro' the dust-clouds, rising dun,
Their burnish'd brands flash'd to the sun
With quickly changing, shiv'ring light,
Like streamers on the northern night;
While arrow-showers came hurtling past,
Like splinter'd wreck driven by the blast,
What time fierce winter is contending,
With Norway's pines, their branches rending.
XLIII.
The fearful strife of arms above,
Not as display'd in colours fair,
They floated on the morning air;
But with a quick, ungentle motion,
As sheeted sails, torn by the blast,
Flap round some vessel's rocking mast
Upon a stormy ocean.
Page 35
XLIV.
In tumult mix'd, are ranks no more;
Nor aught discern'd of skill or form;--
All a wild, bick'ring, steely storm!
While oft around some fav'rite Chieftain's crest,
The turmoil thick'ning, darkly rose,
As on rough seas the billow grows,
O'er lesser waves high-heaved, but soon deprest.
So gallant Grame, thou noble Scot!
Around thee rose the fearful fray,
And other brave compeers of bold essay,
Who did not spare their mothers' sons that day,
And ne'er shall be forgot.
XLV.
Like spirit quick, like giant strong,
Plunging the foe's thick ranks among,
Wide room in little time was hew'd,
And grizly sights around were strew'd;
Page 36
And every hostile thing to earth was brought.
Full strong and hardy was the foe
To whom he gave a second blow.
Many a knight and lord
Fell victims to his sword,
And Cressingham's proud crest lay low.
XLVI.
Their ranks dispers'd, their leader slain,
Passing the bridge with dauntless air,
They still came pouring on the plain;
But weaken'd of its rafter'd strength,
'Tis said by warlike craft, and trod
By such successive crowds, at length
The fabrick fell with all its living load.
Loud was the shriek the sinking Southrons gave,
Thus dash'd into the deep and booming wave.
For there a fearful death had they,
Page 37
And struggling rose and sunk again,
Who, 'midst the battle's loud affray,
Had the fair meed of honour sought,
And on the fieldlike
lions fought.
XLVII.
Where many a wounded youth was lying,
And many dead and many dying,
Did England's arms to Scotland's heroes yield.
The close confusion opening round,
The wild pursuit's receding sound,
Is ringing in their ears, who low
On cloated earth are laid, nor know,
When those who chase and those who fly,
With hasty feet come clatt'ring by,
Or who hath won or who hath lost;
Save when some dying Scotchman lifts his head,
And, asking faintly how the day hath sped,
Page 38
Starts up, and gives a cheering sound
And waves his hand and yields the ghost.
A smile is on the corse's cheek,
Stretch'd by the heather bush, on death bed bare and bleak.
XLVIII.
The Southron's yet unbroken power,
As on the river's adverse shore they stood,
Silent beheld, till, like a mountain flood,
Rush'd Stirling's castled warriors to the plain;
Attack'd their now desponding force,
And fiercely press'd their hasty course
Back to their boasted native soil again.
XLIX.
Were towns and castles quickly clear'd;
Thro' all the land at will might free men range:
Page 39
It was a blessed change!
L.
Hall-house and tower, secure from harm
Or lawless spoil, again became
The cheerful charge of wife or dame.
'Neath humble roofs, from rafter slung
The harmless spear, on which was hung
The flaxen yarn in spindles coil'd,
And leathern pouch and hozen soil'd,
And rush or osier creel*
, that held
Both field and houshold geer; whilst swell'd
With store of Scotland's fav'rite food,
The seemly sack in corner stood;
Remains of what the foe had left;
Glad sight to folks so long bereft!
Page 40
Tho' still with poorer neighbours shared.
The wooden quaigh *
and trencher placed
On the shelv'd wall, its rudeness graced.
Beneath the pot red faggots glanced,
And on the hearth the spindle danced,
As housewife's slight, so finely true,
The lengthen'd thread from distaff drew,
While she, belike, sang ditty shrill
Of Southron louns with lengthen'd trill.
LI.
The noble lady kept her state,
With girdle clasp'd by gem of price,
Buckle or hasp of rare device,
Which held, constrain'd o'er bodice tight,
Her woollen robe of colours bright;
And with bent head and tranquil eye,
And gesture of fair courtesy,
Page 41
Tho' far a field her warlike lord.
A board where smoked on dishes clear
Of massy pewter, sav'ry cheer,
And potent ale was foaming seen
O'er tankards bright of silver sheen,
Which erst, when foe men bore the sway,
Beneath the sod deep buried lay.
For household goods, from many a hoard,
Were now to household use restored.
LII.
Their cheerful toil, whilst mingled din
Of saw or hammer cleave the air,
The roofless bigging *
to repair,
The woodman fells the gnarled tree,
The ploughman whistles on the lea;
Page 42
As lordlings gaze with upcast eye;
The arrow'd sportsman strays at will,
And fearless strays o'er moor and hill;
The traveller pricks along the plain;
The herdboys shout and children play;
Scotland is Scotland once again,
And all are boon and gay.
LIII.
Like gleam of sunshine o'er them broke;
And souls, when joy and peace were new,
Of every nature, kindlier grew.
It was a term of liberal dealing,
And active hope and friendly feeling,
Thro' all the land might freemen range,
It was a blessed change!
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LIV.
The mingled fray of shower and blast,
Tissue of threaded gems is worn
By flower and fern and briar and thorn,
While the scourged oak and shaken pine,
Aloft in brighten'd verdure shine.
Then Wallace to St. Johnston went,
And thro' the country quickly sent
Summons to burgher, knight, and lord,
Who, there convened, with one accord,
Took solemn oath with short debate,
Of fealty to the state,
Until a King's acknowledged, rightful sway,--
A native King, they should with loyal hearts obey.
And he with foresight wise, to spare
Poor Scotland, scourged, exhausted, bare,
Whose fields unplough'd, and pastures scant,
Had brought her hardy sons to want,
His conquering army southward led,
Which was on England's plenty fed:
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Spoil of the land which ill that hateful change could brook.
LV.
At such unseemly foil, and loth
So to be bearded, sent defiance
To Scotland's chief, in sure reliance
That he, with all which he may southward bring,
Of warlike force, dare not encounter England's King.
LVI.
Before this scepter'd and anointed,
Who, strengthen'd with a num'rous host,
There halted, to maintain his boast,
On Stanmore's height, their battle ground,
With all his valiant Scots was found.
A narrow space of stony moor,
With heath and likens mottled o'er,
Page 45
The adverse armies lay between.
When upland mists had worn away,
And blue sky over-head was clearing,
And things of distant ken appearing
Fair on the vision burst, that martial grand array.
The force on haughty Edward's side,
Spearmen and archers were descry'd,
Line beyond line, spread far and wide,
Receding from the eye;
While bristling pikes distinct and dark,
As traced aloft with edgy mark,
Seem'd graven on the sky;
And armed Knights arm'd steeds bestriding,
Their morions glancing bright,
And to and fro their gay squires riding,
In warlike geer bedight.
O'er all the royal standard flew,
With crimson folds of gorgeous hue,
And near it, ranged, in colours gay,
Inferior flags and banners play,
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Circled by lesser birds, that wheeling round him fly.
Huge waggon, sleaded car, and wain,
With dark, piled loads, a heavy train,
Store-place of arms and yeoman's cheer,
Frown'd in the further rear.
LVII.
The northern ranks the charge abide,
In numbers few, but stout of heart,
Their nation's honour to assert.
LVIII.
England's great King, and Scotland's Warden stood.
That Monarch proud, did rightly claim
'Mongst Europe's lords the fairest fame,
And had, in cause of Christentie,
Fought with bold Saracens right gallantly.
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That e'er grac'd nation, race, or clan,
And grasp'd within his brave right hand
A sword, which from the dust had rais'd his native land.
LIX.
So brave and grand a sight,
"What stalwart deeds shall here be done
"Before the close of night!"
But Edward mark'd with falt'ring will,
The Scottish battle ranged with skill,
Which spoke the Leader's powerful mind.
On England's host that number'd twice their foes,
But newly raised, nor yet enured to blows,
He rueful look'd, his purpose fail'd,
He look'd again, his spirit quail'd,
And battle gage declin'd.
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LX.
The bloodless honours of the field.
But as the Southron ranks withdrew,
Scarcely believing what he saw,
The wary Chief might not expose
His soldiers to returning foes,
Or ambush'd snare, and gave the order,
With beat of drum and trumpet sounding,
The air with joyous shouts resounding,
To cross with homeward steps the English border.
LXI.
Her prudent Chieftain to enure
His nobles still to martial toil,
Sought contest on a distant soil;
And many a young and valiant knight,
For foreign wars were with their leader dight.
And soon upon the seas careering
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Waving and curling in the air,
With changeful hues of colour fair,
Themselves as gallant, boon, and gay,
Their course with fav'ring breezes steering,
To friendly France they held their way.
LXII.
With warlike fleet, and sails full set,
De Longoville, that bold outlaw,
Whose name kept mariners in awe.
This man, with all his desp'rate crew
Did Wallace on the waves subdue.
One Scottish ship the pirate thought
As on her boarded deck he fought,
Cheer'd by his sea-mates' warlike cries,
A sure and easy prize.
But Wallace's mighty arm he felt;
Yea, at his conqueror's feet he knelt;
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And take the mercy of the brave;
For still, as thing by nature fit,
The brave unto the brave are knit.
Thus natives of one parent land,
In crowded mart, on foreign strand,
With quick glance recognize each other;
"That mien! that step! it is a brother!
"Tho' mingled with a meaner race,
"In foreign garb, I know that face,
"His features beam like those I love,
"His limbs with mountain vigour move,
"And tho' so strange and alien grown,
"The kindred tie my soul will own."
De Longoville, ev'n from that hour, a knight,
True to his native King, true to the right,
Fought with the Scottish hero to the end,
In many a bloody field, his tried and valiant friend.
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LXIII.
Those noble Scots with brand and lance,
'Midst foreign knights and warriors blended,
In generous rivalry contended,
Whilst their brave Chieftain taught them still,
The soldier's dext'rous art and leader's nobler skill.
LXIV.
Of life inert and covert guile,
Most faithless to the peace so lately made,
Was northward bound again, poor Scotland to invade.
Then Wallace, with his valiant band,
By Scotland's faithful sons recall'd,
Whom foreign yoke full sorely gall'd,
Must raise again his glaved hand
To smite the shackles from his native land.
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LXV.
To see their country bear the yoke,
Hearing their Warden was return'd,
Forth from their secret hidings broke,
Wood, cave, or mountain-cliff, and ran
To join the wond'rous man.
LXVI.
His standard floating on the air,
Which, curling oft with courteous wave,
Still seem'd to beckon to the brave.
And when approach'd within short space,
They saw his form and knew his face,--
That brow of hope, that step of power,
Which stateliest strode in danger's hour,--
How glow'd each heart!--"Himself we see!
"What, tho' but few and spent we be!
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"The rightful cause is strongest ever;
"While Wallace lives, the land is free."
LXVII.
And war with England's King renew'd.
By martial stratagem he took
St. Johnston's stubborn town, a hold
So oft to faithless tyrants sold;
And cautious patriots then forsook
Ignoble shelter, kept so long,
And join'd in arms the ardent throng,
Who with the Warden southward past,
Like clouds increasing on the blast.
LXVIII.
And in his prosp'rous course held on,
Till Edward's strength, borne quickly down,
Held scarcely castle, tower, or town,
Page 54
He turn'd him to the north again;
Where from each wall'd defence, the foe expell'd,
Fled fast, Dundee alone still for King Edward held.
LXIX.
To see the Scotch his warriors homeward chase,
And those, so lately crush'd, so powerful grown,
But ill could brook this sudden foul disgrace.
And he a base, unprincely compact made
With the red Cumming, traitor, black of heart!
Who to their wicked plot, in secret laid,
Some other chieftains gain'd with wily art.
And he hath dared again to send
A noble army, all too brave
For such unmanly, hateful end,
A land of freedom to enslave.
At Falkirk soon was England's proudest boast
Marshall'd in grand array, a brave and powerful host.
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LXX.
Soon on the field stood Scotland's hope,
Ev'n thirty thousand warriors, led
By noble Wallace, each, that day,
Had cheerfully his heart's blood shed
The land to free from Southron's sway.
Alas! had all her high-born chieftains been
But as their leader and their clansmen true,
She on that field a glorious day had seen,
And made, tho' match'd with them, in number few,
King Edward's vaunted host that fatal day to rue.
LXXI.
Which so obscured each lofty name,
Was meanly harbour'd in the breast
Of those who bore an honour'd crest.
But most of all Red Cumming nursed
In his dark breast this bane accursed,
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O'er-master'd all his wretched mind.
Then to Lord Stewart, secretly,
Spoke with smooth words the traitor sly,
Advising that, to grace his name,
Being by right confess'd the man,
Who ought to lead the Scottish van,
He should the proud distinction claim.
And thus, as one of low estate,
With lip of scorn, and brow elate,
Did he, by traitors back'd, the godlike Wallace bate.
LXXII.
"Scotland's best blood, be led by thee?
"Thou, who art great but as the owl,
"Who plumed her wing from every fowl,
"And, hooting on her blasted tree,
"Would greater than the eagle be."
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LXXIII.
"When ye in holes shrunk from the light;
"My plumes spread to the blazing sun
"Which coweringly ye sought to shun.
"Ye are the owls, who from the gloom
"Of cleft and cranny boasting come;
"Yet, hoot and chatter as ye may,
"I'll not to living man this day
"Resign the baton of command,
"Which Scotland's will gave to my hand,
"When spoil'd, divided, conquer'd, maim'd,
"None the dangerous honour claim'd;
"Nor, till my head lie in the dust,
"Will it betray her sacred trust."
LXXIV.
He utter'd then a hasty vow,
Seeing the snare by treason laid,
So strongly wove, so widely spread,
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While, slow and silent at his back,
March'd on his wayward, cheerless track,
Ten thousand Scotchmen staunch and true,
Who would, let good or ill betide,
By noble Wallace still abide.
LXXV.
As on a gentle hill apart they stood,
To see arm'd squadrons closing in the fight,
And the fierce onset to their work of blood.
To see their well-known banners as they moved
When dark opposing ranks with ranks are blending,
To see the lofty plumes of those they loved
Wave to and fro, with the brave foe contending.
LXXVI.
On the dark mountain's cloudy screen,
Forms of departed chiefs hath seen,
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O'erlooking some dire field of death,
Where warriors, warm with vital breath,
Of kindred lineage, urge the glorious strife;
They grasp their shadowy spears, and forward bend
In eager sympathy, as if to lend
Their aid to those, with whom in mortal life,
They did such rousing, noble conflict share,--
As if their phantom forms of empty air,
Still own'd a kindred sense of what on earth they were.
LXXVII.
The fatal fight, when Scotland was betray'd
By the false Cumming, who most basely fled,
And from the field a thousand warriors led.
O how his noble spirit burn'd,
When from his post the traitor turn'd,
Leaving the Stuart sorely prest!
Who with his hardy Scots the wave
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Like clansmen true and brave.
His visage flush'd with angry glow,
He clench'd his hand, and struck his brow.
His heart within his bosom beat
As it would break from mortal seat,
And when at last they yielded space,
And he beheld their piteous case,
Big scalding tears cours'd down his manly face.
LXXVIII.
Which doth in mortal breast reside,
Of noble minds the earthly bane,
His gen'rous impulse to restrain,
Had power in that dark moment! still
It struggled with his better will.
And who, superior to this tempter's power,
Hath ever braved it in the trying hour?
O! only he, who, strong in heavenly grace,
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Their wicked mockery, their stripes, their scorn,
Gave his devoted life for all the human race.
He viewed the dire disast'rous fight,
Like a fall'n cherubim of light,
Whose tossing form now tow'rs, now bends,
And with its darken'd self contends,
Till many a brave and honour'd head
Lay still'd upon a bloody bed,
And Stuart, midst his clans, was number'd with the dead.
LXXIX.
Which strath or cavern hath confin'd,
And straight thro' England's dark array,
With his bold mates, hew'd out his bloody way.
A perilous daring way, and dear the cost!
For there the good, the gallant Grame he lost.
The gallant Grame, whose name shall long
Remember'd be in Scottish song.
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In lowland tale of winter's night,
Who loved him as he never loved another.
Low to the dust he bent his head,
Deep was his anguish o'er the dead.--
"That daring hand, that gentle heart!
"That lofty mind! and must we part?
"My brother, Oh, my brother!"
LXXX.
To speak with words their speechless sorrow,
Who, on the trampled, blood-stain'd green
Of battle-field, must leave behind
What to their souls hath dearest been,
To stiffen in the wind?
The soldier there, or kern or chief,
Short parley holds with shrewdest grief;
Passing to noisy strife from what, alas!
Shall from his sadden'd fancy never pass,--
Page 63
Says, "shall we never meet again!"
The grasping hand or sign but known,
Of tenderness, to one alone:
The lip convulsed, the life's last shiver;
The new-closed eye, yet closed for ever,
The brave must quit;--but, from the ground,
They, like th' enchafed lion bound.
Rage is their sorrow, grimly fed,
And blood the tears they shed.
LXXXI.
How Wallace fought; how on the brave
The ruin of his anguish fell,
Ere from the field, his bands to save,
He broke away, and sternly bore
Along the stony Carron's shore.
The dark brown water, hurrying past,
O'er stone and rocky fragment cast
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And wheel'd and bubbled on its way,
And lash'd the margin's flinty guard,
By him unheeded and unheard;
Albeit, his mind, dark with despair,
And grief, and rage, was imaged there.
LXXXII.
Him marching on the rival side.
The Bruce, whose right the country own'd,
(Had he possess'd a princely soul,
Disdaining Edward's base controul,)
To be upon her chair of power enthron'd.
LXXXIII.
"Thou who pretend'st the land to save
"With rebel sword, opposed to me,
"Who should of right thy sovereign be;
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"Opposed by foreign power so great,
"By those at home of high estate?
"Cast the vain thought to empty air,
"Thy fatal mad ambition to despair."
LXXXIV.
"This sword to gain or power or throne
"Was never drawn; no act of mine
"Did e'er with selfish thought combine.
"Courage to dare, when others lay
"In brutish sloth, beneath the sway
"Of foreign tyranny; to save
"From thraldom, hateful to the brave,
"My friends, my countrymen; to stand
"For right and honour of the land,
"When nobler arms shrunk from the task,
"In a vile tyrant's smiles to bask,
"Hath been my simple warrant of command.
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"Nor shall this hand her charge forego,
"While Southron in the land is found
"To lord it o'er one rood of Scottish ground,
"Or till my head be low."
LXXXV.
And own'd the hero's words were true;
And with his followers, sad and slow
To Edward's camp withdrew.
LXXXVI.
(So says the learned clerk of old,
Who first our hero's story told,)
Fleeting the triumph of his numerous host.
For with the morning's early dawn
The Scottish soldiers, scatter'd wide,
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Hath cheer'd their spirits, rous'd their pride,
And led them, where their foes they found,
All listless, scatter'd on the ground.
On whom with furious charge they set;
And many a valiant Southron met
A bloody death, waked from the gleam
And inward vision of a morning's dream;
Where Fancy in his native home
Led him through well-known fields to roam,
Where orchard, cot, and copse appear,
And moving forms of kindred dear;--
For in the rugged soldier's brain
She oft will fairy court maintain
Full gently, as beneath the dusk
Of hard-ribb'd shell, the pearl lies,
Or silken bud in prickly husk;--
He from her vision's sweet unseals his eyes
To see the stern foe o'er him darkly bending,
To feel the deep-thrust blade his bosom rending,
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LXXXVII.
So fatal was the vengeance ta'en,
That Edward, with enfeebled force,
Check'd mad ambition's unbless'd course,
And to his own fair land return'd again.
LXXXVIII.
And castled hold, as heretofore,
To pull each English banner down
And free the land once more.
But ah! the generous hope he must forego!
Envy and pride have Scotland's cause betrayed;
All now are backward, listless, cold, and slow,
His patriot arm to aid.
LXXXIX.
Met burghers, knights, and nobles all,
Page 69
A full assembly of the state.
There he resign'd his ensigns of command,
Which erst had kept the proudest Thanes in awe;
Retaining in that potent hand
Which thrice redeem'd its native land,
His simple sword alone, with which he stood
Midst all her haughty peers of princely blood,
The noblest man e'er Scotland saw.
XC.
Him, who, in many a bloody fight,
The country's champion stood; her people's Wallace wight.
O black ingratitude! thy seemly place
Is in the brutish, mean, and envious heart;
How is it then, thou dost so oft disgrace
The learn'd, the wise, the highly born, and art
Like cank'ring blights, the oak that scathe,
While fern and brushwood thrive beneath;
Page 70
While graves of turf with violets bloom.
Selfish ambition makes the lordliest Thane
A meaner man than him, who drives the loaded wain.
XCI.
Forsook to join his old ally once more.
And in Guienne right valiant deeds he wrought;
Till under iron yoke opprest,
From north to south, from east to west,
His most unhappy groaning country sought
The generous aid she never sought in vain;
And with a son's unwearied love,
Which fortune, time, nor wrongs could move,
He to maintain her cause again repass'd the main.
The which right bravely he maintain'd;
And divers castles soon regain'd.
The sound ev'n of his whisper'd name
Revived in faithful hearts the smother'd flame,
And many secretly to join his standard came.
Page 71
Were yielded to his growing strength;
And on, with still increasing force,
He southward held his glorious course.
XCII.
And win him to his princely side
With treasur'd gold and honours vain,
And English manors fair and wide.
But with flush'd brow and angry eye
And words that shrewdly from him broke,
Stately and stern, he thus bespoke
The secret embassy.
"These kingly proffers made to me!
"Return and say it may not be.
"Lions shall troop with herdsmen's droves,
"And eagles roost with household doves,
"Ere William Wallace draw his blade
"With those who Scotland's rights invade.
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"Would in my thrilling members wake
"A loathful sense of rankling pain
"Like coiling of a venom'd snake."
The King abash'd, in courtly hold,
Receiv'd this answer sooth and bold.
XCIII.
That stopp'd him in his bold career.
Monterith, a name which from that day, I ween,
Hateful to every Scottish ear hath been,
Which highland kern and lowland hind
Have still with treacherous guile combin'd,--
The false Monteith, who under show
Of friendship, sold him to the foe,
Stole on a weary secret hour,
As sleeping and disarm'd he lay,
And to King Edward's vengeful power
Gave up the mighty prey.
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XCIV.
The Southrons raised a vaunting sound,
As if the bands which round his limbs they drew,
Had fetter'd Scotland too.
They gaz'd and wonder'd at their mighty thrall;
Then nearer drew with movements slow,
And spoke in whispers deep and low.--
"This is the man to whom did yield
"The doughtiest knight in banner'd field,
"Whose threat'ning frown the boldest did appal!"
And, as his clanging fetters shook,
Cast on him oft a fearful look,
As doubting if in verity
Such limbs with iron might holden be:
While boldest spearmen by the pris'ner's side
With beating heart and haggard visage ride.
XCV.
And in the Tower's dark dungeons cast
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He must abide his fatal doom.
There pent, from earthly strife apart,
Scotland still rested on his heart.
Aye; every son that breathed her air
On cultur'd plain or mountain bare,
From chief in princely castle bred
To herdsman in his sheeling shed,
From war-dight youth to barefoot child,
Who picks in brake the berry wild;--
Her gleamy lakes and torrents clear,
Her towns, her towers, her forests green,
Her fields where warlike coil hath been,
Are to his soul most dear.
XCVI.
Whose nodding plume had terror spread
O'er many a face, ev'n seen from far,
When moving in the ranks of war.
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But in that Presence whose keen eye
Can darkest breast of mortal scan,
The bitter thought and heavy sigh
Have way uncheck'd, and utter'd grief
Gave to his burthen'd heart a soothing, sad relief.
XCVII.
"From the fell tyrant's grinding hand
"To set thee free, my native land!
"I bow me to the will of Heaven!
"But have I run my course in vain?
"Shall thou in bondage still remain?
"The spoiler o'er thee still have sway,
"Till virtue, strength, and pride decay?
"O no! still panting to be free,
"Thy noblest hearts will think of me.
"Some brave, devoted, happier son
"Will do the work I would have done;
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"His sword in Scotland's cause!"
XCVIII.
To him who fought at Bannockburn.
Or is it wildness to believe
A dying patriot may receive,
(Who sees his mortal span diminish'd
To nought, his generous task unfinish'd,)
A seeming fruitless end to cheer,
Some glimpses of the gifted seer?
O no! 'tis to his closing sight
A beacon on a distant height,--
The moon's new crescent, seen in cloudy kirtled night.
XCIX.
Of those who Scotland's foes had been,
His soul's strong hatred to efface,
A work of grace, I ween!
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And every worldly thought forsook.
C.
And cast aside his mantling hood,
He eyed the crowd, whose sullen hum,
Did from ten thousand upcast faces come,
And armed guardsmen standing round,
As he was wont on battle-ground,
Where still with calm and portly air,
He faced the foe with visage bare;
As if with baton of command
And vassal chiefs on either hand,
Towering her marshall'd files between,
He Scotland's warden still had been.
This flash of mortal feeling past,--
This gleam of pride, it was the last.
As on the cloud's dense skirt will play,
While the dark tempest rolls away,
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The sky is clear, and all is peace.
And he with ready will a nobler head
Than e'er was circled with a kingly crown,
Upon the block to headsman's stroke laid down,
And for his native land a generous victim bled.
CI.
Like felons on the cursed tree,
Visited by sun and shower,
A ghastly spectacle may be!
A fair renown, as years wear on,
Shall Scotland give her noblest son.
The course of ages shall not dim
The love that she shall
