Each heart had caught the patriot spark,
Old man and stripling, priest and clerk,
Bondsman and serf; e'en female hand
Stretch'd to the hatchet or the brand;
But when mute Amadine they heard
Give to their zeal his signal word,
A frenzy fired the throng;
"Portents and miracles impeach
"Our sloth, the dumb our duties teach,
"And he that gives the mute his speech,
"Can bid the weak be strong.
“To us, as to our lords, are given
"A native earth, a promis'd heaven;
"To us, as to our lords, belongs,
"The vengeance for our nation's wrongs,
"The choice 'twixt death or freedom warms
"Our breasts, as theirs,-to arms, to arms!"
To arms they flew, axe, club or spear,—
And mimic ensigns high they rear,
And like a banner'd host, afar
Bear down on England's wearied war.
Already, scattered o'er the plain,
Reproof, command, and counsel, vain,
The rearward squadrons fled amain,
Or made but doubtful stay ;-
But, when they mark'd the seeming show
Of fresh, and fierce, and marshall'd foe,
The boldest broke array.
Oh! give their hapless Prince his due,—
In vain the royal Edward threw
His person 'mid the spears,
Cried, "fight!" to terror and despair,
Menaced and wept, and tore his hair,
And cursed their caitiff fears,
Till Pembroke turn'd his bridle rein,
And forced him from the fatal plain.
With them rode Argentine, until
They gained the summit of the hill,
But quitted there the train :-
"In yonder field, a gage I left,—
"I must not live of fame bereft,
"I needs must turn again.
Speed hence my liege, for on your trace "The fiery Douglas takes the chace,
"I know his banner well.
"God send my sov'reign joy, and bliss, "And many a happier field than this!-"Once more my liege, farewell."
Again he faced the battle field,
Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield.
"Now then," he said, and couched his spear,
My course is run, the goal is near,
"One effort more, one brave career,
"Must close this race of mine."
Then in his stirrups rising high,
He shouted loud his battle-cry,
"St. James for Argentine?"
And of the bold pursuers four,
The gallant knight from saddle bore,
But not unharm'd, a lance's point
Had found his breast-plate's loosen'd joint,
An axe has razed his crest:
Yet still on Colonsay's fierce lord,
Who press'd the chace with gory sword,
He rode with spear in rest,
And through his bloody tartans bored,
And through his gallant breast.
Nail'd to the earth, the Mountaineer
Yet writh'd him up against the spear,
And swung his broadsword round—
Stirrup, steelboot, and cuish gave way,
Beneath that blow's tremendous sway,
The blood gushed from the wound;
And the grim lord of Colonsay
Hath turn'd him on the ground,
And laugh'd in death pang, that his blade
The mortal thrust so well repaid.-
Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done,
To use his conquest nobly won;
And gave command for horse and spear,
the southern's scatter'd rear,
Nor let his broken force combine,
When the war cry of Argentine
Fell faintly on his ear!
"Save, save his life," he cried, "oh save,
"The kind, the noble, and the brave!"
The squadrons round free passage gave,
The wounded knight drew near.
He raised his red-cross shield no more,
Helm, cuish, and breast-plate stream'd with gore,
Yet, as he saw the King advance,
He strove even then, to couch his lance-
This effort was in vain,
The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse,
Wounded and weary, in mid-course
He stumbled on the plain.
Then foremost was the generous Bruce
To raise his head, his helm to loose :-
"Lord Earl, the day is thine!
'My Sov'reign's charge, and adverse fate "Have made our meeting all too late, "Yet this, may Argentine
As boon from ancient comrade crave"A christian's mass, a soldier's grave,"
Bruce press'd his dying hand-its grasp
Kindly replied; but in his clasp,
It stiffened and grew cold,
And, "Oh farewell!" the victor cried,
"Of chivalry the flower and pride,
"The arm in battle bold,
"The courteous mien, the noble race,
"The stainless faith, the manly face!-
"Bid Ninnian's convent light their shrine,
"For late-wake of De Argentine,
"O'er better knight, on death-bier laid,
"Torch never gleam'd, nor mass was said!"
Nor for De Argentine alone,
Through Ninnian's church these torches shone,
And rose the death-prayer's awful tone.
If ever you should come to Modena,
(Where amongst other relics you may see Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one)Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you-but before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you—
And look awhile upon a picture there.
"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family,
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.
She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said "Beware"-her vest of gold,
Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp,
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody.
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest half eaten by the worm,
-But richly carved by Antony of Trent,
With Scripture stories from the life of Christ,
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
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