King Edward's Dream. THE FIFTEENTH BARD'S SONG. The heath-cock had whirred at the break of the morn, The moon of her tassels of silver was shorn, His battle-files, stretched o'er the valley, were still He slept but his visions were loathly and grim: How quivered his lip! and how quaked every limb ! His dull moving eye showed how troubled his rest, And deep were the throbs of his labouring breast. He saw the Scot's banner red streaming on high; The fierce Scottish warriors determined and nigh; Their columns of steel, and, bright gleaming before, The lance, the broad target, and Highland claymore. S And, lo! at their head, in stern glory appeared That hero of heroes so hated and feared; And Wallace's spirit was pointing the way: His eye was a torch, beaming ruin and wrath, In far Ethiopia's desert domain, Where whirlwinds new mountains up-pile on the plain, The plaided blue Highlander, swift as the wind, Thick clouds of blood-vapour brood over the slain, The chieftain he hated, all covered with blood, Still nearer and nearer approached where he stood; He could not retreat, and no succour was near"Die, scorpion !" he cried, and pursued his career. The king felt the iron retreat from the wound, No hand to uphold him, he sunk on the ground: His spirit escaped on the wings of the wind, Left terror, confusion, and carnage behind, Till on the green Pentland he thought he sat lone, And pondered on troubles and times that were gone. He looked over meadow, broad river, and downe, From Ochel's fair mountains to Lammermore brown; He still found his heart and desires were the same; He wished to leave Scotland nor sceptre nor name. He thought, as he lay on the green mountain thyme, A spirit approached him in manner sublime. At first she appeared like a streamer of light, But still as she neared she was formed to his sight. Her robe was the blue silken veil of the sky, The drop of the amethyst deepened its dye; Her crown was a helmet, emblazoned with pearl; Her mantle the sunbeam, her bracelets the beryl; Her hands and her feet like the bright burning levin; Her face was the face of an angel from heaven: Like music that floats o'er the soft heaving deep, When twilight has lulled all the breezes asleep, The wild fairy airs in our forests that rung, Or hymn of the sky by a seraph when sung; So sweet were the tones on the fancy that broke, When the Guardian of Scotland's proud mountains thus "What boots, mighty Edward, thy victories won? 'Tis over; thy sand of existence is run; Thy laurels are faded, dispersed in the blast; Thy soul from the bar of Omnipotence cast, To wander bewildered o'er mountain and plain, O'er lands thou hast steeped with the blood of the slain. "I heard of thy guerdon, I heard it on high: Thou'rt doomed on these mountains to linger and lie, And climb to renown over mountains of slain. "I thought (and I joined my endeavours to thine,) The time was arrived when the two should combine; For 'tis known that they will 'mong the hosts of the sky, And we thought that blest æra of concord was nigh. But ages unborn yet shall flit on the wing, And Scotland to England ere then give a king; A father to monarchs, whose flourishing sway The ocean and ends of the earth shall obey. "See yon little hamlet o'ershadowed with smoke, See yon hoary battlement throned on the rock, Even there shall a city in splendour break forth, The haughty Dunedin, the Queen of the North; |