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 flame that shall avenge their doom!
This is no land for chains-away!
O'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 controll'd;

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,

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 suppress'd.
And thy heart's noblest feelings live,
Blent in that suppliant word-"Forgive!"
"Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done!
Wallace! thy fairest palm is vn;
And, kindling at my country shrine,
My soul hath caught a spark trom 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 trace
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 pour'd

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!-thy race shall claim
A heritage of deathless fame,
And Scotland shall arise at length,
Majestic in triumphant strength,

An eagle of the rock, that won
A way through tempests to the sun!
Nor scorn the visions wildly grand
The prophet-spirit of thy land:

By torrent-wave, in desert vast,

Those visions o'er my thought have pass'd;
Where mountain vapors darkly roll,
That spirit hath possess'd my soul;
And shadowy forms have met mine eye,
The beings of futurity;

And a deep voice of years to be,
Hath told that Scotland shall be free!
He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings!
From thee the chief, th' avenger springs!
Far o'er the land he comes to save,
His banners in their glory wave,
And Albyn's thousand harps awake
On hill and heath, by stream and lake,
To swell the strains, that far around
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound!
And I-but wherefore now recall
The whisper'd omens of my fall?
They come not in mysterious gloom-
There is no bondage in the tomb!
O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns,
And earth alone for man hath chains!
What though I perish ere the hour

When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power?
If shed for her my blood shall stain
The field or scaffold not in vain :
Its voice to efforts more sublime
Shall rouse the spirit of her clime;
And in the noontide of her lot,
My country shall forget me not!"

Art thou forgot? and hath thy worth
Without its glory pass'd from earth?
Rest with the brave, whose names belong
To the high sanctity of song,
Charter'd our reverence to control,
And traced in sunbeams on the soul,
Thine, Wallace! while the heart hath still
One pulse a generous thought can thrill-
While youth's warm tears are yet the meed
Of martyr's death, or hero's deed,
Shall brightly live from age to age,
Thy country's proudest heritage!
'Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling,
Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling,
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave,
Thy step hath hallow'd rock and cave,

And cold the wanderer's heart must be,
That holds no converse there with thee!
Yet, Scotland! to thy champion's shade,
Still are thy grateful rites delay'd;
From lands of old renown, o'erspread
With proud memorials of the dead,
The trophied urn, the breathing bust,
The pillar guarding noble dust,
The shrine where art and genius high
Have labored for eternity-

The stranger comes his eye explores
The wilds of thy majestic shores,
Yet vainly seeks one votive stone,
Raised to the hero all thine own.

Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore!
Withhold that guerdon now no more.
On some bold height of awful form,
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm,
Sublimely mingling with the skies,
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise;
Not to record the name that thrills
Thy soul, the watch-word of thy hills;
Not to assert, with needless claim,
The bright for ever of its fame;
But in the ages yet untold,

When ours shall be the days of old,
To rouse high hearts and speak thy pride
In him, for thee who lived and died.

These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of publica tion:

*

"Our readers will remember, that, about a year ago, a truly patrio tic person signified his intention of giving £1000 towards the erection of a monument to Sir William Wallace At the same time he proposed a prize of £50 to the best poem on the following subject: The meeting of Wallace and Bruce on the Banks of the Carron.' The prize was lately adjudged to Mrs. Hemans, whose poetical genius has been for some years well known to the public When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs. Hemans had authorized the judges who awarded to her the prize, to send her poem to us, it is needless to say with what enthusiasm the proposal of reading it aloud was received on all sides; and at its conclusion thunders of applause crowned the genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie-Ireland her Tighe-England her Hemans."-Blackwood's Magazine, vol. v., Sept. 1819.

"Mrs. Hemans so soon again!-and with a palm in her hand' We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find the high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so unequivocally confirmed. "On this animating theme (the meeting of Wallace and Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of the other side of the Tweed-a circumstance, we learn, which was known from the

references before the prizes were determined. Mrs. Hemans's was the first prize, against fifty-seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem on a subjct purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates the disappearance of those jealousies, which, not a hundred years ago, would have denied to such a candidate any thing like a fair chance with a native-if we can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming of making the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramount supremacy of England. We delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two nations alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sympathy which bind them together in one great family."— Edinburgh Monthly Review, vol. ii.

• We have learned that two of the prizes were adjudged to English writers.