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With accents milder than Æolian lays,
Oh, Thou! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep! Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep! Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind's force, And stays the thunder in its vengeful course; Fountain of life! Omnipotent Supreme ! Robed in perfection ! crown'd with glory's beam! Oh! send on earth thy consecrated dove, To bear the sacred olive from above; Restore again the blest, the halcyon time, The festal harmony of nature's prime! Bid truth and justice once again appear, And spread their sunshine o'er this mundane sphere; Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom, Transcendant light their hallow'd fane illume; Bid war and anarchy for ever cease, And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of peace; Brothers once more, let men her empire own, And realms and monarchs bend before the throne ; While circling rays of angel-mercy shed Eternal halos round her sainted head !
WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.
[ADVERTISEMENT." A Native of Edinburgh, and Member of the Highland Society of London,” with a view to give popularity to the project of rearing a suitable National Monument to the Memory of Wallace, lately offered Prizes for the three best poems on the subject of that Illustrious Patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish Throne. The following Poem obtained the first of these prizes. It would have appeared in the same form in which it is now offered to the Public, under the direction of its proper Editor, the giver of the Prize: but his privilege has, with pride as well as pleasure, been yielded to a Lady of the Author's own Country, who solicited permission to avail herself of this opportunity of honouring and further remunerating the genius of the Poet; and, at the same time, expressing her admiration of the theme in which she has triumphed.
It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and enlightened people, that, in England, the memory of the patriots and martyrs of Scotland has long excited an interest not exceeded in strength by that which prevails in the country which boasts their birth, their deeds, and their sufferings.]
“Great patriot hero! Ill requited chief!"
The morn rose bright on scenes renown'd,
The morn rose bright—and heard the cry
The sunset shone — to guide the flying, And beam a farewell to the dying ! The summer moon, on Falkirk's field, Streams upon eyes in slumber seal'd; Deep slumber—not to pass away When breaks another morning's ray, Nor vanish, when the trumpet's voice Bids ardent hearts again rejoice: What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath, May chase the still cold sleep of death? Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stain'd plaid, Low are her mountain-warriors laid; They fell, on that proud soil whose mould Was blent with heroes' dust of old, And, guarded by the free and brave, Yielded the Roman - but a grave! Nobly they fell; yet with them died The warrior's hope, the leader's pride. Vainly they fell — that martyr hostAll, save the land's high soul, is lost. Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep, Nor hear their bleeding country weep! The shouts of England's triumph telling, Reach not their dark and silent dwelling;
And those surviving to bequeath
But thou, the fearless and the free, Devoted Knight of Ellerslie! No vassal-spirit, form’d to bow When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow; No shade of fear, or weak despair, Blends with indignant sorrow there! The ray which streams on yon red field, O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield, Glitters not there alone, to shed Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead; But, where smooth Carron's rippling wave Flows near that deathbed of the brave, Illuming all the midnight scene, Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. But other beams, O Patriot ! shine In each commanding glance of thine, And other light hath fill'd thine eye With inspiration's majesty, Caught from th' immortal flame divine, Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine ! Thy voice a prophet's tone hath won, The grandeur Freedom lends her son ; Thy bearing a resistless power, The ruling genius of the hour! And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride, Whom Carron's waves from thee divide, Whose haughty gesture fain would seek To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek,
Feels his reluctant mind controllid
Heard ye the Patriot's awful voice? « Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice! Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, The harvest of thy battle plain, And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot Eternity shall cancel not? Rejoice !- with sounds of wild lament, O’er her dark heaths and mountains sent, With dying moan, and dirge's wail, Thy ravaged country bids thee hail ! Rejoice !-- while yet exulting cries From England's conquering host arise, And strains of choral triumph tell, Her Royal Slave hath fought too well! Oh! dark the clouds of woe that rest, Brooding, o'er Scotland's mountain-crest; Her shield is cleft, her banner torn, O’er martyr'd chiefs her daughters mourn, And not a breeze, but wafts the sound Of wailing through the land around. Yet deem not thou, till life depart, High hope shall leave the patriot's heart; Or courage to the storm inured, Or stern resolve by woes matured, Oppose, to Fate's severest hour, Less than unconquerable power!