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.
Een 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 won; And, kindling at my country's shrine, 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 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 every 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 vapours 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 labour'd 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 publication:

"When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had authorised 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 TigheEngland 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 subject 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."-Edin. Monthly Review, vol. ii.

The estimation into which the poetry of Mr Hemans was rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following passage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitled "Common Sense," then published, and currently believed to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot, now Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female writers of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and characterised. He then proceeds

"Next I'd place

Felicia Hemans, second in the race;

I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir

Oft about rubbish, never mention her.

They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding-
Mistress Felicia's works are worth the reading."

"Mrs Hemans," adds the critical satirist in a note, "is a lady, (a young lady, I believe,) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive. I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deserves well of the republic of letters."

The worthy bishop has lived to read "The Records of Woman ;" and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know that the aspirant of 1819 has now taken her place among British classics.]

THE ABENCERRAGE.

[The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related in the Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains their name, being called the "Sala de los Abencerrages." Many of the most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic period.]

"Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colere dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance seul peut ecarter de sa tete le poids d'infamie dont il est accable.-Il se venge, parce qu'a ses yeux il n'y a qu'une ame basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce que s'il la sentoit s'eteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir perdu une vertu." SISMONDI.

LONELY and still are now thy marble halls, Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o'cr; And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.

Hush'd are the voices that in years gone by Have mourn'd, exulted, menaced, through thy towers;

Within thy pillar'd courts the grass waves high,

And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers.

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, Through tall arcades unmark'd the sunbeam smiles,

And many a tint of soften'd brilliance throws
O'er fretted walls and shining peristyles.

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone,
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair,
Some charm'd abode of beings all unknown,
Powerful and viewless, children of the air.

For there no footstep treads th' enchanted ground, There not a sound the deep repose pervades, Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, Throughthe light domes and graceful colonnades.

Far other tones have swell'd those courts along In days romance yet fondly loves to trace The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, The revels, combats of a vanish'd race.

And yet awhile, at Fancy's potent call,

Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold; Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old.

-The sun declines: upon Nevada's height There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light; Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye That melts and mingles in th' empurpled sky. Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour; Hush'd are the winds, and nature seems to sleep In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep, Are dyed with tints of glory, only given To the rich evening of a southern heavenTints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught | With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught. -Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest The fiery passions of the human breast. [sound, Hark! from th' Alhambra's towers what stormy Each moment deepening, wildly swells around? Those are no tumults of a festal throng, Not the light zambra1 nor the choral song: The combat rages-'tis the shout of war, 'Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar. Within the Hall of Lions, where the rays Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze; There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands : There the strife centres-swords around him wave, There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave; While echoing domes return the battle-cry, "Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!" And onward rushing, and prevailing still, Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. But first and bravest of that gallant train, Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain;

1 Zambra, a Moorish dance.

2 The Hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, and was so called from twelve sculptured lions which supported an alabaster basin in the centre.

They perish'd-not as heroes should have died,
On the red field, in victory's hour of pride,
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame,
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came :
Oh! had they thus expired, a warrior's tear
Had flow'd, almost in triumph, o'er their bier.
For thus alone the brave should weep for those
Who brightly pass in glory to repose.

-Not such their fate: a tyrant's stern command
Doom'd them to fall by some ignoble hand,
As, with the flower of all their high-born race,
Summon'd Abdallah's royal feast to grace,
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh,
They sought the banquet's gilded hall-to die.
Betray'd, unarm'd, they fell-the fountain wave
Flow'd crimson with the life-blood of the brave,
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate
Through the wide city rang from gate to gate,
And of that lineage each surviving son [won.
Rush'd to the scene where vengeance might be

Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray,
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay.

Where lurks Abdallah?-midst his yielding train They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. He lies not number'd with the valiant dead, His champions round him have not vainly bled; But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, And his last warriors found each effort fail, In wild despair he fled-a trusted few, Kindred in crime, are still in danger true; And o'er the scene of many a martial deed, The Vega's green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. | He pass'd th' Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers, Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers In dew and starlight-there, from grot and cave, Gush'd in wild music many a sparkling wave; There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose, And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.

But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course Of him who flies from terror or remorse ! A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange[rise,

groves; Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that Wild notes of nature's vesper-melodies; Marks not how lovely, on the mountain's head, Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread; But urges onward, till his weary band, Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand. He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes In silence gazing, fix'd awhile remains In stern, deep silence: o'er his feverish brow, And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar, Sounds indistinctly fearful-as of war. What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high, O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky? Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, Seen midst the redness of the desert storm, Magnificently dread-above, below, Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow.

2 The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent actions between the Moors and Christians.

3 An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom.-See BRUCE's Travels.

Lo! from the Alhambra's towers the vivid glare
Streams through the still transparence of the air!
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre,
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire;
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height,
From dim perspective start to ruddy light.

Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah's soul, The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly For life-such life as makes it bliss to die! On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal'd Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. Thither his steps are bent-yet oft he turns, Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. But paler grow the sinking flames at last, Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past; And spiry vapours, rising o'er the scene,

Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. And now his feet have reach'd that lonely pile, Where grief and terror may repose awhile; Embower'd it stands, midst wood and cliff on high, Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh: He hails the scene where every care should cease, And all-except the heart he brings-is peace.

There is deep stillness in those halls of state Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late; Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert pass'd.1 Fearful the calm-nor voice, nor step, nor breath Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death: Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, Save the wild gush of waters-murmuring round

1 of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the following account in Volney's Travels:-" These winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a subthe dust, which penetrates every where: respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal."

In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone,
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone.
O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red,
Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread
In mingled fragments-glittering to the light
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright,
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed,
And smile in placid beauty o'er the dead:
O'er features where the fiery spirit's trace
E'en death itself is powerless to efface;
O'er those who flush'd with ardent youth awoke,
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke,
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep;
In the low silent house, the narrow spot,
Home of forgetfulness-and soon forgot.

But slowly fade the stars--the night is o'erMorn beams on those who hail her light no more; Slumberers who ne'er shall wake on earth again, Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. Yet smiles the day-oh! not for mortal tear Doth nature deviate from her calm career: Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows; Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, And skies arch cloudless o'er a world of woe; And flowers renew'd in spring's green pathway bloom,

Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.

Within Granada's walls the funeral rite Attends that day of loveliness and light; And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, Is gather'd to the brave of other years: And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade His martyr'd brother and his sire are laid, Feels every deep resolve and burning thought Of ampler vengeance e'en to passion wrought; Yet is the hour afar-and he must brood O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. Tumult and rage are hush'd-another day In still solemnity hath pass'd away, In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, The calm that follows in the tempest's path.

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, His ravaged city traversing again. No sound of gladness his approach precedes, No splendid pageant the procession leads; Where'er he moves the silent streets along, Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng.