The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | VI. |
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THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY. |
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| VII. |
 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
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THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY.
Heart! that did'st press forward still,
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill,
Where the knightly swords were crossing,
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing,
Leader of the charging spear,
Fiery heart!—and liest thou here?
May this narrow spot inurn
Aught that so could beat and burn?
Heart! that lovedst the clarion's blast,
Silent is thy place at last;
Silent—save when early bird
Sings where once the mass was heard;
Silent—save when breeze's moan
Comes through flowers or fretted stone;
And the wild-rose waves around thee,
And the long dark grass hath bound thee,
—Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep,
In his nameless valley deep?
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill,
Where the knightly swords were crossing,
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing,
Leader of the charging spear,
Fiery heart!—and liest thou here?
May this narrow spot inurn
Aught that so could beat and burn?
Heart! that lovedst the clarion's blast,
Silent is thy place at last;
Silent—save when early bird
Sings where once the mass was heard;
Silent—save when breeze's moan
Comes through flowers or fretted stone;
And the wild-rose waves around thee,
And the long dark grass hath bound thee,
—Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep,
In his nameless valley deep?
No! brave heart! though cold and lone,
Kingly power is yet thine own!
Feel I not thy spirit brood
O'er the whispering solitude?
Lo! at one high thought of thee,
Fast they rise, the bold, the free,
Sweeping past thy lowly bed,
With a mute, yet stately tread.
Shedding their pale armour's light
Forth upon the breathless night,
Bending every warlike plume
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb.
Kingly power is yet thine own!
Feel I not thy spirit brood
O'er the whispering solitude?
Lo! at one high thought of thee,
Fast they rise, the bold, the free,
114
With a mute, yet stately tread.
Shedding their pale armour's light
Forth upon the breathless night,
Bending every warlike plume
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb.
Is the noble Douglas nigh,
Arm'd to follow thee, or die?
Now, true heart, as thou wert wont
Pass thou to the peril's front!
Where the banner-spear is gleaming,
And the battle's red wine streaming,
Till the Paynim quail before thee,
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee—
Dreams! the falling of a leaf
Wins me from their splendours brief;
Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not,
Thou that seek'st the holy spot;
Nor, amidst its lone domain,
Call the faith in relics vain!
Arm'd to follow thee, or die?
Now, true heart, as thou wert wont
Pass thou to the peril's front!
Where the banner-spear is gleaming,
And the battle's red wine streaming,
Till the Paynim quail before thee,
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee—
Dreams! the falling of a leaf
Wins me from their splendours brief;
Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not,
Thou that seek'st the holy spot;
Nor, amidst its lone domain,
Call the faith in relics vain!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |