WALLACE AND BRUCE.
13
And strains of choral triumph tell,
Her Royal Slave hath fought 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 martyred 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,
