 | Poems by a Painter |  |
24
CULLODEN.
At last I stand upon thy fatal sod,Drummossie Moor!—and if my eyes are wet,
'Tis not that here the star of Stuart set
To rise no more. The righteous hand of God
Was on the race, whom nor prosperity,
Nor sorrow's holier discipline, could school
To this first axiom of true royalty:
Who knows to serve, alone deserves to rule.
The world could not stand still, that they might play
The fool with empire; so they passed. My tears
Are not for them, but for the outnumbered Brave
Who bled beneath the hirelings' steel that day,
And now sleep, rank on rank, in this wide grave,
Swathed in the verdure of a hundred years.
| Poems by a Painter | |