That in the low, red, level beams commix,
And weave their elfin dance,—another time
And other tones were yours, when on each peak
At hand, and through Argyle and Lanark shires,
Startling black midnight, flared the beacon lights,
And when from out the west the castled steep
Of Broadwick reddened with responsive blaze.*
A night was that of doubt and of suspense,
Of danger and of daring, in the which
The fate of Scotland in the balance hung
Trembling, and up and down wavered the scales;
But Hope grew brighter with the rising sun,
And Dawn looked out, to see upon the shore
The Bruce's standard floating on the gale,
A call to freedom !-barks from every isle
Pouring with clumps of spears !-from every dell
The throng of mail-clad men !—vassal and lord,
With ponderous curtal-axe, and broadsword keen,
Banner and bow; while, overhead, afar
And near, the bugles rang amid the rocks,
Echoing in wild reverberation shrill,
And scaring from his heathery lair the deer,
The osprey from his island cliff of rest.
But not alone by that fierce trumpet-call, Through grove and glen, on mount and pastoral hill, The brute and bird were roused by it again,
And by the signal blaze upon the hills,
And by the circling of the fiery cross,
Then once again were Scotland's children roused
With swelling hearts and loud acclaim they heard
The summons, saw the signal, and cast off
With indignation in the dust the weeds
Of their inglorious thraldom. Every hearth
Wiped the red rust from its ancestral sword,
And sent it forth avenging to the field
In brightness-but with Freedom to be sheathed!
Yea, while the mother and the sister mourned,
And while the maiden, half-despairingly,
Wept for her love, who might return no more,
The grey-haired father, leaning on his staff,
Infirm, felt for a moment to his heart
The youthful fire return, and inly mourned
That he could do no more-no more than send
A blessing after his young gallant boy,
Armed for the battles of his native land,
Nor wished him back, unless with Freedom won!
To olden times my reveries have roamed— While twilight hangs above her silver star, Which in the waveless deep reflected shines— Have roamed to glory and war, and the fierce days Of Scotland's renovation, when the Bruce
Beheld the sun of Bannockburn go down,
And wept for gladness that the land was free!
Fitful and fair, yet clouded with a haze,
As 'twere the mantle of uncertainty-
The veil of doubt-to memory awakes
The bright heart-stirring past, when human life
(For but its flashing points to us remain)
Was half romance; and were it not that yet,
In stream, and crag, and isle, and crumbling walls
Of keep and castle, still remains to us
Physical proof that history is no mere
Hallucination, oftentimes the mind.
(So different is the present from the past)
Would deem its pageant an illusion all.
Arran, and Bute, and Cumbrae, and ye peaks
Glowing like sapphires in the utmost west,
Sweet scenes of beauty and peace, farewell! The eyes
But of a passing visitor are mine
On you. Before this radiant eve, enshrined
For ever in my inmost soul, ye were
Known but in name; but now ye are mine own,
One of the pictures which fond memory,
In musing phantasy, will oft-times love
To conjure up, gleaning, amid the stir
And strife of multitudes, as 'twere repose,
By dwelling on the tranquil and serene!
REVIVING with the genial airs,
Beneath the azure heaven of spring,
Thy stem of ancient vigour bears
Its branches green and blossoming; The birds around thee hop and sing, Or flit, on glossy pinions borne, Above thy time-resisting head, Whose umbrage overhangs the dead, Thou venerable Thorn! 41
Three ages of mankind have pass'd
To silence and to sleep, since thou,
Rearing thy branches to the blast,
As glorious, and more green than now,
Sheltered beneath thy shadowy brow
The warrior from the dews of night:
To doubtful sleep himself he laid,
Enveloped in his tartan plaid,
And dreaming of the fight.
Day open'd in the orient sky
With wintry aspect, dull and drear;
On every leaf, while glitteringly
The rimy hoar-frost did appear.
Blue Ocean was unseen, though near;
And hazy shadows seem'd to draw,
In silver with their mimic floods,
A line above the Seton woods,
And round North Berwick Law.
Hark! 'twas the bagpipe that awoke
Its tones of battle and alarms!
The royal drum, with doubling stroke,
In answer, beat, "To arms-to arms!"
If tumult and if war have charms,
Here might that bliss be sought and found:
The Saxon line unsheaths the sword;
Rushes the Gael, with battle-word,
Across the stubble ground.
Alas! that British might should wield
Destruction o'er a British plain ;
That hands, ordain'd to bear the shield,
Should bring the poison'd lance to drain
The life-blood from a brother's vein,
And steep ancestral fields in gore!
Yet, Preston, such thy fray began ;
Thy marsh-collected waters ran
Empurpled to the shore.
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