212
PRIZE POEMS.
Its blazon'd pride the despot-banner waves,
And spreads its terrors through a land of slaves.
Vain all her charms-the wild, the deep-toned wail
Of anguish'd bosoms, rolls along the gale;
On furrow'd cheek, that ne'er was wet before,
The struggling fount of sorrow gushes o'er;
And eyes fast fading into death's repose,
Shed the last tear-drop for their country's woes.
Rise, Scotland, rise! the fearful dream is o'er,
Ten thousand voices bid thee weep no more;
A dying Wallace spurns the hated thrall,
A living Bruce repeats the glorious call;
From rock to rock the swelling cry resounds,
From hill to hill the pealing thunder bounds;
O'er barren wild and verdure-teeming plain,
O'er foaming cataract, o'er mountain chain;
From Berwick's stream to Kirkwall's lone retreat,
From Stirling hill to Rona's wave-worn seat,
It comes, it comes—the lethargy is past,
'Tis Freedom's self that peals the stirring blast.
Awake, ye heroes, high the flag unfurl,
Unchanged in heart, the stern defiance hurl;
Pluck from its coward sheath the glitt'ring brand,
Crush the foul tyrants of your native land;
Rise, conqu'ring warriors—sons of Scotland, rise,
Death be the refuge—freedom is the prize!
Sweet Bannockburn! the sun's departing beam
Flung o'er thy bonny land a ling'ring gleam,
And calm and peaceful fell the liquid ray,
'Mid rural scenery and woodland spray:
But e'er that beam another day had crown'd,
A ghastly ruin mock'd the charms around;
The green grass waved along the verdant plain,
Another day—'twas crush'd beneath the slain;
The streamlet sparkled but the eve before,
Another day—'twas red with clotted gore;
And spreads its terrors through a land of slaves.
Vain all her charms-the wild, the deep-toned wail
Of anguish'd bosoms, rolls along the gale;
On furrow'd cheek, that ne'er was wet before,
The struggling fount of sorrow gushes o'er;
And eyes fast fading into death's repose,
Shed the last tear-drop for their country's woes.
Rise, Scotland, rise! the fearful dream is o'er,
Ten thousand voices bid thee weep no more;
A dying Wallace spurns the hated thrall,
A living Bruce repeats the glorious call;
From rock to rock the swelling cry resounds,
From hill to hill the pealing thunder bounds;
O'er barren wild and verdure-teeming plain,
O'er foaming cataract, o'er mountain chain;
From Berwick's stream to Kirkwall's lone retreat,
From Stirling hill to Rona's wave-worn seat,
It comes, it comes—the lethargy is past,
'Tis Freedom's self that peals the stirring blast.
Awake, ye heroes, high the flag unfurl,
Unchanged in heart, the stern defiance hurl;
Pluck from its coward sheath the glitt'ring brand,
Crush the foul tyrants of your native land;
Rise, conqu'ring warriors—sons of Scotland, rise,
Death be the refuge—freedom is the prize!
Sweet Bannockburn! the sun's departing beam
Flung o'er thy bonny land a ling'ring gleam,
And calm and peaceful fell the liquid ray,
'Mid rural scenery and woodland spray:
But e'er that beam another day had crown'd,
A ghastly ruin mock'd the charms around;
The green grass waved along the verdant plain,
Another day—'twas crush'd beneath the slain;
The streamlet sparkled but the eve before,
Another day—'twas red with clotted gore;
