Poems By Edward Quillinan. With a Memoir by William Johnston |
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“HIC JACET MALLEUS SCOTORUM.” |
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 | Poems |  |
129
“HIC JACET MALLEUS SCOTORUM.”
King Edward held a stately feast
For England's peace restored;
Unarmèd knight and rosy priest
Were jovial at the board.
For England's peace restored;
Unarmèd knight and rosy priest
Were jovial at the board.
He sate on Scotia's Lia-Fail,
The mystic Chair of Fate,
Whereon, ere Erin's star grew pale,
The crown'd of Cashel sate.
The mystic Chair of Fate,
Whereon, ere Erin's star grew pale,
The crown'd of Cashel sate.
The harpstring and the pliant voice
Were chiming in accord,
And made th' heroic heart rejoice
Of England's aged lord.
Were chiming in accord,
And made th' heroic heart rejoice
Of England's aged lord.
130
The minstrels sang of Cambria tamed,
Her prince, her bards, a dream:
(O, how was minstrel honour shamed
By that unholy theme!)
Her prince, her bards, a dream:
(O, how was minstrel honour shamed
By that unholy theme!)
They sang of Scotland, and the death
The traitor Wallace died;
The monarch glanced on pale Monteith,
And laugh'd out in his pride:
The traitor Wallace died;
The monarch glanced on pale Monteith,
And laugh'd out in his pride:
They sang of Bruce, a broken reed,
Of Scotland's hopes the last,
A waif on ocean, or a weed,
On Erin's breakers cast:
Of Scotland's hopes the last,
A waif on ocean, or a weed,
On Erin's breakers cast:
No more the dew of homage fails
To Britain's triple throne;
No more shall vassals reign in Wales,
Nor slaves be crown'd at Scone;
King Edward reigns o'er hills and dales
Unrivall'd and alone.
To Britain's triple throne;
No more shall vassals reign in Wales,
Nor slaves be crown'd at Scone;
King Edward reigns o'er hills and dales
Unrivall'd and alone.
They sang—but hark, another strain,
A cry from Cheviot's warders,
“The Scots are up in arms again,
From Carrick to the borders.”
A cry from Cheviot's warders,
“The Scots are up in arms again,
From Carrick to the borders.”
131
The barons started to their feet:
The King sate fiercely still,
Hard-tempering, in the furnace heat
Of rage, his iron will.
The King sate fiercely still,
Hard-tempering, in the furnace heat
Of rage, his iron will.
His heel on Scotland's neck to plant,
Arising then, he swore;
He vowed it by the Saxon saint
Whose crown and name he bore.
Arising then, he swore;
He vowed it by the Saxon saint
Whose crown and name he bore.
The Liege of Albion by his right,
Of Scotia by his wrong—
Woe to the weak who dare to plight
Their cause against the strong!
Of Scotia by his wrong—
Woe to the weak who dare to plight
Their cause against the strong!
A hunting-field shall Scotland be!
And, like a knightly lord,
He comes with England's chivalry
To keep his royal word.
And, like a knightly lord,
He comes with England's chivalry
To keep his royal word.
Through old Carlisle, the merry town
Of trouble and turmoil,
A city out of chaos grown
For border-carls to spoil;
Of trouble and turmoil,
A city out of chaos grown
For border-carls to spoil;
132
Through Carlisle, merry with alarms,
What dread procession flows!
What force of mounted knights in arms,
What press of bills and bows!
What dread procession flows!
What force of mounted knights in arms,
What press of bills and bows!
That very tramp of cavalry
Might quail the Lowland thanes,
That show alone of archery
Dry up the Highland veins.
Might quail the Lowland thanes,
That show alone of archery
Dry up the Highland veins.
Lo, in advance of targe and lance,
King Edward, on a rock,
Surveys the north with such a glance
As eagle eyes the flock.
King Edward, on a rock,
Surveys the north with such a glance
As eagle eyes the flock.
His look devours the Scottish land,
It seems within his clasp;
He stretches forth his threatening hand
As if the prey to grasp:
It seems within his clasp;
He stretches forth his threatening hand
As if the prey to grasp:
That hand is grappled suddenly
By one who beards his wrath!
What madman dares a jest so free?
Hush—'tis a greater King than he,
The King whose name is Death!
By one who beards his wrath!
What madman dares a jest so free?
Hush—'tis a greater King than he,
The King whose name is Death!
133
Like him who took his lingering stand
On Nebo, to explore
Gilead, with all the promised land
From Napthali to Zoar,
On Nebo, to explore
Gilead, with all the promised land
From Napthali to Zoar,
But thither came a dying man,
His entrance disallow'd:
Thus, though no guide his way foreran,
No seraph in the cloud—
His entrance disallow'd:
Thus, though no guide his way foreran,
No seraph in the cloud—
Thus came the haught Plantagenet,
To see, but not possess,
A land that in his fury yet
He doom'd a wilderness.
To see, but not possess,
A land that in his fury yet
He doom'd a wilderness.
For, ev'n in death, a tyrant brave,
He felt his heart enlarge
With despot passion, and he gave
His son a solemn charge:
He felt his heart enlarge
With despot passion, and he gave
His son a solemn charge:
“When I am dead, if thou would'st thrive,
In earth depose me not;
Thy father, breathless, as alive,
Would yet appal the Scot.
In earth depose me not;
Thy father, breathless, as alive,
Would yet appal the Scot.
134
With fire and water seethe my corse
Until my bones are bare;
Then fix me on a gallant horse
In front of England's war;
My very skeleton shall force
The rebels to despair.”
Until my bones are bare;
Then fix me on a gallant horse
In front of England's war;
My very skeleton shall force
The rebels to despair.”
That ghastly mandate on the wind
Spent its delirious sting;
In London's Minster were enshrined
The relics of the King.
Spent its delirious sting;
In London's Minster were enshrined
The relics of the King.
In that grand pile of memories,
Whoever seeks the spot
May read his epitaph—“Here lies
The Hammer of the Scot.”
Whoever seeks the spot
May read his epitaph—“Here lies
The Hammer of the Scot.”
But what of all the dread array
The invader led so far?
Gone; but, as tempests pass away,
To gather fiercer war.
The invader led so far?
Gone; but, as tempests pass away,
To gather fiercer war.
135
The southern wind comes roaring loud,
The stormy hosts return!
Who now shall brave the thunder-cloud?—
The Bruce at Bannockburn.
The stormy hosts return!
Who now shall brave the thunder-cloud?—
The Bruce at Bannockburn.
| Poems | |