University of Virginia Library

Still dost thou hear in stern disdain?
Are Freedom's warning accents vain?
No! royal Bruce! within thy breast
Wakes each high thought, too long suppress'd.
And thy heart's noblest feelings live,
Blent in that suppliant word—“Forgive!”
“Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done!
Wallace! thy fairest palm is won;
And, kindling at my country's shrine,
My soul hath caught a spark from thine.
Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour
Of triumph and exulting power—
Deem not the light of peace could find
A home within my troubled mind.
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen,
Dark, silent, secret, there have been,
Known but to Him whose glance can trace
Thought to its deepest dwelling-place!
—'Tis past—and on my native shore
I tread, a rebel son no more.
Too blest, if yet my lot may be,
In glory's path to follow thee;
If tears, by late repentance pour'd
May lave the blood-stains from my sword!”
Far other tears, O Wallace! rise
From the heart's fountain to thine eyes;
Bright, holy, and uncheck'd they spring,
While thy voice falters, “Hail! my King!
Be every wrong, by memory traced,
In this full tide of joy effaced:
Hail! and rejoice!—thy race shall claim
A heritage of deathless fame,
And Scotland shall arise, at length,
Majestic in triumphant strength,
An eagle of the rock, that won
A way through tempests to the sun!
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand,
The prophet-spirit of thy land:
By torrent wave, in desert vast,
Those visions o'er my thought have pass'd;
Where mountain vapours darkly roll,
That spirit hath possess'd my soul;
And shadowy forms have met mine eye,
The beings of futurity;
And a deep voice of years to be,
Hath told that Scotland shall be free!
He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings!
From thee the chief, th' avenger springs!
Far o'er the land he comes to save,
His banners in their glory wave,
And Albyn's thousand harps awake
On hill and heath, by stream and lake,
To swell the strains, that far around
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound!
And I—but wherefore now recall
The whisper'd omens of my fall?
They come not in mysterious gloom—
There is no bondage in the tomb!
O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns,
And earth alone for man hath chains!
What though I perish ere the hour
When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power?
If shed for her, my blood shall stain
The field or scaffold not in vain:
Its voice to efforts more sublime
Shall rouse the spirit of her clime;
And in the noontide of her lot,
My country shall forget me not!”