—Rest with the brave, whose names belong
To the high sanctity of song,
Chartered our reverence to control,
And traced in sunbeams on the soul!
Thine, Wallace while the heart hath still
One pulse a generous thought can thrill,
While youth's warm tears are yet the meed
Of 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'erspread
With proud memorials of the dead,
The trophied urn, the breathing bust,
The pillar, guarding noble dust,
The shrine where art and genius high
Have laboured for eternity;
The stranger comes—his eye explores
The 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 thrills
Thy 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 pride
In him, for thee who lived and died.
