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 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 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 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 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 passed from earth?
