20
WALLACE AND BRUCE.
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 poured,
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 unchecked they spring,
While thy voice falters, "Hail! my king!
Be every wrong, by memory traced,
In this full tide of joy effaced!
