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PADVERTISEMENT.-"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 permision to avail herself of this opportunity of honoring 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! ni requited chief!"

The morn rose bright on scenes renown'd,
Wild Caledonia's clasic ground,
Where the bold sons of other days
Won their high fame in Ossian's lays,
And fell—but not till Carron's tide
With Roman blood was darkly died.
The morn rose bright-and heard the cry
Sent by exulting hosts on high,
And saw the white-cross banner float
(While rung each clansman's gathering note)
O'er the dark plumes and serried spears
Of Scotland's daring mountaineers;
As all elate with hope, they stood,
To buy their freedom with their blood.

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,

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Feels his reluctant mind controll'd
By thine of more heroic mould ;
Though, struggling all in vain to war
With that high soul's ascendant star,
He, with a conqueror's scornful eye,
Would mock the name of Liberty.

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 sought too well!
Oh! dark the clouds of wo 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!
No! though the orbs of heaven expire,
Thine, Freedom! is a quenchless fire;
And wo to him whose might would dare
The energies of thy despair !
No!-when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast,
O’er thy land's charter'd mountain-blast,
Then in my yeilding soul shall die
The glorious faith of Liberty !”

“Wild hopes! o'er dreamer's mind that rise Jos With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries, (Yet his dark cheek is flush'd with shame, And his eye fillid with troubled flame ;) “Vain, brief illusions ! doom'd to fly England's red path of victory! Is not her sword unmatch'd in might? Her course, a torrent in the fight? The terror of her name gone forth Wide o'er the regions of the north?

Far hence, 'midst other heaths and snows,
Must freedom's footstep now repose.
And thou—in lofty dreams elate,
Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate!
'Tis vain—the land is lost and won-
Sheathed be the sword-its task is done.
Where are the chiefs that stood with thee,
First in the battles of the free?
The firm in heart, in spirit high?
They sought yon fatal field to die.
Each step of Edward's conquering host
Hath left a grave on Scotland's coast.”

“ Vassal of England, yes! a grave
Where sleep the faithful and the brave;
And who the glory would resign,
Of death like theirs, for life like thine ?
They slumber—and the stranger's tread
May spurn thy country's noble dead;
Yet, on the land they loved so well
Still shall their burning spirit dwell,
Their deeds shall hallow minstrel's theme,
Their image rise on warrior's dream,
Their names be inspiration's breath,
Kindling high hope and scorn of death,
Till bursts, immortal from the tomb,
The fame that shall avenge their doom!
This is no land for chains away!
C'er softer climes let tyrants sway;
Think'st thou the mountain and the storm
Their hardy sons for bondage form?
Doth our stern wintry blast instil
Submission to a despot's will ?
No! we were cast in other mould
Than theirs by lawless power controllid;
The nurture of our bitter sky
Calls forth resisting energy,
And the wild fastnesses are ours,
The rocks with their eternal towers;
The soul to struggle and to dare,
Is mingled with our northern air,
And dust beneath our soil is lying
Of those who died for fame undying.
Tread'st thou that soil! and can it be,
No loftier thought is roused in thee?
Doth no high feeling proudly start
From slumber in thine inmost heart?
No secret voice thy bosom thrill,
For thine own Scotland pleading still ?
Oh! wake thee yet-indignant, claim
A nobler fate, a purer fame,

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And cast to earth thy fetters riven,
And take thine offer'd crown from Heaven.
Wake! in that high majestic lot
May the dark past be all forgot;
And Scotland shall forgive the field
Where, with her blood, thy shame was seal'd.
E’en I-though on that fatal plain
Lies my heart's brother with the slain;
Though reft of his heroic worth,
My spirit dwells alone on earth;
And when all other grief is past,
Must this be cherish'd to the last-
Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne,
With faith unspotted as his own,
Nor in thy noon of fame recall,
Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall.”

Still dost thou hear in stern disdain ?
Are freedom's warning accents vain ?
No! royal Bruce! within thy breast
Wakes each high thought, too long suppressid.
And thy heart's noblest feelings live,
Blent in that suppliant word“Forgive !"
“ Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done!
Wallace! thy fairest palm is w

win;
And, kindling at my country a hrine,
My soul hath caught a spark from thine.
Oh! deem not in the proudest hour
Of triumph and exulting power,
Deem not the light of peace could find
A home within my troubled mind.
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen,
Dark, silent, secret, there have been,
Known but to Him whose glance can traco
Thought to its deepest dwelling place!
—'Tis past and on my native

shore
I tread, a rebel son no more.
Too blest, if yet my lot may be,
In glory's path to follow thee;
If tears, by late repentance pourd
May lave the blood-stains from my sword!"
Far other tears, O Wallace! rise
From the heart's fountain to thine eyes;
Bright, holy, and uncheck’d they spring,
While thy voice falters, “ Hail! my King!
Be ever wrong, by memory traced,
In this full tide of joy effaced :
Hail! and rejoice Sthy race shall claim
A heritage of deathless fame,
And Scotland shall arise at length,
Majestic in triumphant strength,

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