Wallace's Invocation to Bruce.

]> Wallace's Invocation to Bruce.Hemans, Felicia Dorothea Browne, 1793‐1835David Zhuang,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition20 KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162000HemaFWalla

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series65Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorWallace's invocation to Bruce. : A poemHemans, Felicia Dorothea Browne, Mrs Edinburgh: Printed for William Blackwood; and T. Cadell and W. Davies ... London, 1819[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:560. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:560mf.]

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[Title Page] PRIZE POEM.WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.A Poem.BY MRS HEMANS,AUTHOR OF "THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY," "MODERN GREECE," "TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES," AND OTHER POEMS. "Great patriot hero! Ill requited chief!"THOMSON.EDINBURGH; PRINTED FOR WILLIAM BLACKWOOD: AND T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, IN THE STRAND, LONDON.MDCCCXIX. 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 farther 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.

WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.THE morn rose bright on scenes renowned,Wild Caledonia's classic ground,Where the bold sons of other daysWon their high fame in Ossian's lays,And fell—but not till Carron's tideWith Roman blood was darkly dyed.The morn rose bright—and heard the crySent 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 spearsOf 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 sealed;Deep slumber—not to pass awayWhen breaks another morning's ray,Nor vanish, when the trumpet's voiceBids 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‐stained plaid, Low are her mountain‐warriors laid; They fell, on that proud soil, whose mouldWas 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 diedThe warrior's hope, the leader's pride.Vainly they fell—that martyr‐host—All, 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 bequeathTheir sons the choice of chains or death, May give the slumberer's lowly bierAn envying glance—but not a tear.But thou, the fearless and the free,Devoted Knight of Ellerslie!No vassal‐spirit, formed to bowWhen 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 shedIts cloudless beauty o'er the dead,But, where smooth Carron's rippling wave,Flows near that death‐bed of the brave,Illuming all the midnight scene,Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. But other beams, O Patriot! shineIn each commanding glance of thine,And other light hath tilled thine eyeWith 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 Carton's waves from thee divide,Whose haughty gesture fain would seekTo veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek,Feels his reluctant mind controlledBy thine of more heroic mould; Though, struggling all in vain to warWith 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 spotEternity 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 wo that restBrooding o'er Scotland's mountain‐crest,Her shield is cleft, her banner torn,O'er martyred chiefs her daughters mourn,And not a breeze, but wafts the soundOf 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 castO'er thy land's chartered mountain‐blast,Then in my yielding soul shall dieThe glorious faith of Liberty.""Wild hopes! o'er dreamer's mind that rise!"With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries,(Yet his dark cheek is flushed with shame,And his eye filled with troubled flame;)"Vain, brief illusions! doomed to flyEngland's red path of victory!Is not her sword unmatched in might?Her course, a torrent in the fight?The terror of her name gone forthWide 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 wonSheathed be the sword—its task is done.Where are the chiefs who 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 hostHath left a grave on Scotland's coast.""Vassal of England, yes! a graveWhere 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 treadMay 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 stormTheir hardy sons for bondage form?Doth our stern wintry blast instilSubmission to a despot's will? No! we were cast in other mould Than theirs by lawless power controlled!The nurture of our bitter skyCalls 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 lyingOf 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 startFrom slumber in thine inmost heart?No secret voice thy bosom thrill,For thine own Scotland pleading still? Oh! wake thee yet—indignant claimA nobler fate, a purer fame,And cast to earth thy fetters riven,And take thine offered crown from Heaven!Wake! in that high majestic lotMay the dark past be all forgot,And Scotland shall forgive the fieldWhere, with her blood, thy shame was sealed.E'en I—though on that fatal plainLies 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 cherished 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 breastWakes 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 hourOf triumph and exulting power—Deem not the light of peace could findA home within my troubled mind. Conflicts, by mortal eye unseen,Dark, silent, secret, there have been,Known but to Him, whose glance can traceThought to its deepest dwelling‐place!—'Tis past—and on my native shoreI 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 poured,May lave the blood‐stains from my sword!"Far other tears, O Wallace! riseFrom the heart's fountain to thine eyes,Bright, holy, and unchecked 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 claimA heritage of deathless fame,And Scotland shall arise, at length,Majestic in triumphant strength,An eagle of the rock, that wonA 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 passed,Where mountain‐vapours darkly roll,That spirit hath possessed 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 awakeOn hill and heath, by stream and lake,To swell the strains, that far aroundBid the proud name of Bruce resound!And I—but wherefore now recallThe whispered 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 hourWhen Scotland's vengeance wakes in power, If shed for her, my blood shall stainThe 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 worthWithout its glory passed from earth?—Rest with the brave, whose names belongTo the high sanctity of song,Chartered our reverence to control,And traced in sunbeams on the soul:Thine, Wallace! while the heart hath stillOne pulse a generous thought can thrill, While youth's warm tears are yet the meedOf 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 hallowed 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 delayed!From lands of old renown, o'erspreadWith proud memorials of the dead,The trophied urn, the breathing bust,The pillar, guarding noble dust, The shrine where art and genius highHave laboured for eternity;The stranger comes—his eye exploresThe 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 thrillsThy 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 prideIn him, for thee who lived and died.THE END. OLIVER & BOYD, Printers, Edinburgh.