Lays and Ballads from Ancient History :: :: University of Virginia Library

There is darkness in the chamber,
There is silence by the hearth,
For pale, and cold, and dying,
Lies a great one of the earth;
That eye's dim ray is faint and grey,
Those lips have lost their red,
And powerless is a people's love
To lift that languid head.

Through hilly Caledonia
Woe spreadeth far and fast,
As spreads the shadow of a cloud
Before a thunder-blast,—
For it is The Bruce whose mighty heart
Is beating now its last!

A tearful group was gathered
Around that bed of death:
There stood undaunted Randolph,
Knight of the Perfect Wreath;
And Campbell, strong and stedfast
Through danger and despair;
And valiant Grey, and stern La Haye,
And loyal Lennox there;
There, last in name, but first in fame,
And faithful to the end,

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All weeping stood Lord James the Good,
True knight and constant friend;
And there, with eyes of grave surprise,
Fast rooted to the place,
The monarch's son, scarce four years old,
Gazed in his father's face!
But the stillness of that solemn room
Was stirred by scarce a breath—
Silent were all, and silently
The Bruce encountered Death.

They stood and saw, with reverent awe,
How ever, upward glancing,
He seemed to watch some dim array
Of warrior-shapes advancing;
For as he lay in silence,
His life's long memories,
Like a slow and stately pageant,
Did pass before his eyes.

And first—brief days of bitter shame,
Repented and disowned—
His early sins before him came,
By many an after-deed of fame
Effaced and well atoned.
One passing shade of noble grief
Darkened the brow of the dying chief,
But fast it faded from the sight,
Lost in his life's remember'd light;
For then of burning thoughts arose
A shadowy and unnumbered host,—
And Methven's field of blood and woes,
And Rachrin's unforgotten coast,

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Where Freedom's form, through gloom and storm,
Did first for Scotland shine,
As faint by night a beacon-light
Glimmers through mist and brine.
And Arran's isle, by shady Clyde,
Where, when the summer noon was high,
Friends, parted long and sorely tried,
Met, and went forth to victory;
Where loud the Bruce his bugle wound,
And Douglas answered to the sound!

Then name by name, and deed by deed,
Bright trains of glorious thought succeed;—
The midnight watch, till o'er the foam
Gleamed the lone beacon guiding home,
And on old Carrick's well-loved shore
The exile plants his foot once more;
The ford, beside whose waters grey
His single arm kept hosts at bay;
The hurrying march, the bold surprise,
The chase, the ambush, the disguise.
Now leader of a conquering band,
Now track'd by bloodhounds, swift and stern;
Till Glory's sun, at God's command,
Stood still at last on Bannockburn,
And stamped in characters of flame
On Scottish breasts The Bruce's name.—
Oh, seldom deathbed memories
Are populous with thoughts like these!

To the face of the dying monarch
Came a sudden glow, and proud,

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But brief as the tinge of sunset
Flung on a wandering cloud;
But see—his lips are parting,
Though scarce a sound be heard,—
Down stoops the noble Douglas
To catch each feeble word;
And all the knights and warriors,
Holding their tightened breath,
Close in a narrower circle
Around the couch of death.

“O Douglas, O my brother!
My heart is ill at ease;
Unceasingly mine aching eye
One haunting vision sees;
It sees the lengthened arches,
The solemn aisles of prayer,
And the death of the traitor Comyn
Upon the altar-stair.
Woe's me! that deed unholy
Lies like a heavy weight,
Crushing my wearied conscience
Before heaven's open gate.
Fain would I wend a pilgrim
Forth over land and sea,
Where God's dear Son for sinners died—
Alas, it must not be!
But if thy love be stedfast
As it was proved of yore,—
When these few struggling pulses
Are stilled, and all is o'er,
Unclose this lifeless bosom,
Take thence this heart of mine,

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And bear it safely for my sake
To holy Palestine:
Well pleased my heart shall tarry
In thy fair company;
For it was wont, while yet in life,
Ever to dwell with thee!”

The dying king was silent,
And down the Douglas kneeled—
A kiss upon his sovereign's hand
His ready promise sealed;
Never a word he answered,
In sorrow strong and deep,
But he wept, that iron soldier,
Tears such as women weep.
The Bruce hath prest him to his breast
With faint but eager grasp,
And the strong man's arm was tremulous
As that weak dying clasp!

That last embrace unloosing,
The monarch feebly cried,
“Oh, lift me up, my comrades dear,
And let me look on Clyde!”
Widely they flung the casement,
And there in beauty lay
That broad and rolling river
All sparkling to the day.
The Bruce beheld its waters
With fixed and wistful eye,
Where calm regret was blending
With bright expectancy;

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And then, with sudden effort,
Somewhat his arms he raised,
As one that would have fain embraced
The things on which he gazed.
And then on those who held him
There fell a strange deep thrill—
For the lifted arms dropped heavily,
The mighty heart was still!

Hushed was the voice of weeping—
Mutely did Douglas close
The eyes of the illustrious dead,
As if for soft repose;
And backwards from the couch they drew,
Calmly and reverently;
For solemn is the face of death,
Though full of hope it be!