13

—­O soul-piercing stroke of shame! 
O last, last, chance,—­and wasted so! 
Work wanting but the final blow,—­
And, then, the hopeless hope, the crownless name,
The heart’s desire defeated!—­What boots now
That ice-brook-temper’d will,
Indomitable still
As on through snow and storm their path the dalesmen plough?

14

—­Yet again the tartans hail
One smile of Scotland’s ancient face;
One favour waits the faithful race,—­
One triumph more at Falkirk crowns the Gael! 
And O! what drop of Scottish blood that runs
Could aught, save do or die,
And Bannockburn so nigh? 
What cause to higher height could animate her sons?

15

Up the gorse-embattled brae,
With equal eager feet they dash,
And on the moorland summit clash,
Friend mix’d with foe in stormy disarray: 
Once more the Northern charge asserts its right,
As with the driving rain
They drive them down the plain: 
That star alone before Drummossie gilds the night.

16

—­Ah!  No more!—­let others tell
The agony of the mortal moor;
Death’s silent sheepfold dotted o’er
With Scotland’s best, sleet-shrouded as they fell! 
There on the hearts, once mine, the snow-wreaths drift;
Night’s winter dews at will
In bitter tears distil,
And o’er the field the stars their squadrons coldly shift.

17

Faithful in a faithless age! 
Yet happier, in that death-dew drench’d,
In each rude hand the claymore clench’d,
Than who, to soothe a nation’s craven rage,
To the red scaffold went with steady eye,
And the red martyr-grave,
For one, who could not save! 
Who only lives to weep the weight of life, and die!

18

—­He ended, with such grief
As fits and honours manhood:—­Then, once more
Weaving that long romantic lay, told o’er
The names of clan and chief
Who perill’d all for him, and died;—­and how
In islets, caves, and clefts, and bare high mountain-brow

19

The wanderer hid, and all
His Odyssey of woes!—­Then, agonized
Not by the wrongs he suffer’d and despised,
But for the Cause’s fall,—­
The faces, loved and lost, that for his sake
Were raven-torn and blanch’d, high on the traitor’s stake,

20

      As on Drummossie drear
   They fell,—­as a dead body falls,—­so he;
   Swoon-senseless at that killing memory
      Seen across year on year: 
   O human tears!  O honourable pain! 
Pity unchill’d by age, and wounds that bleed again!

21

      —­Ah, much enduring heart! 
   Ah soul, miscounsell’d oft and lured astray,
   In that long life-despair, from wisdom’s way
      And thy young hero-part!—­
   —­And yet—­DILEXIT MULTUM!—­In that cry
Love’s gentler judgment pleads; thine epitaph a sigh!