There learning shall flourish, and liberty smile, "But thy lonely spirit shall roam in dismay; Where beamed the red faulchion of ravage and wrath; Rode ruthless through blood of the honoured and just. When Græme and brave Stuart lay bleeding in dust, The wailings of liberty pierced the sky; Th' Eternal, in pity, averted his eye! "Even there shall the power of thy nations combined, Proud England, green Erin, and Normandy joined, Exulting in numbers, and dreadful array, Led on by Carnarvon, to Scotland away, As thick as the snow-flakes that pour from the pole, Or silver-maned waves on the ocean that roll. A handful of heroes, all desperate driven, Impelled by the might and the vengeance of Heaven; By them shall his legions be all overborne, And melt from the field like the mist of the morn. "How couldst thou imagine those spirits of flame But the Scots, round their king and broad banner unfurled, King Edward awoke with a groan and a start, His legions moved on like a cloud of the west; On sand of the Solway they rested his bed, But the whisper that died on his tongue was" Subdue!" The bard had sung so bold and high, While patriot fire flashed from his eye, That ere King Edward won to rest, Or sheet was spread above his breast, The harp-strings jarred in wild mistone; - The minstrel throbbed, his voice was gone. Upon his harp he leaned his head, And softly from the ring was led. The next was from a western vale, Where Nith winds slowly down the dale; Where play the waves o'er golden grain, Like mimic billows of the main. Of the old elm his harp was made, That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade: No gilded sculpture round her flamed, For his own hand that harp had framed, In stolen hours, when, labour done, He strayed to view the parting sun. How danced his youthful heart with joy! How constant grew the dear employ ! The sun would chamber in the Ken; The red star rise o'er Locherben; When his first notes, from covert gray, Arrested maiden on her way; When ceased the reaper's evening tale, That harp could make the matron stare, Bristle the peasant's hoary hair, Make patriot-breasts with ardour glow, And warrior pant to meet the foe; And long by Nith the maidens young At ewe-bught, or at evening fold, Dumlanrig. THE SIXTEENTH BARD'S SONG. Who's he that at Dumlanrig's gate Hollas so loud, and raps so late? Thundering alternate shake the wall. 1 |