ADDRESS TO CARTLANE CRAIGS.
Ye Cartlane Craigs, your steepy sides
Let Nature’s votaries explore,
To learn what fossils here she hides,
Or find some plant unknown before.
A far more precious vein I seek;
And here, I know, ’twas once conceal’d;
A simple—that can nerve the weak,
And prowess to the fearful yield.
Blest Freedom flourish’d in this wild,
When banish’d from each cultur’d spot:
Expiring Albin saw, and smil’d,
And all her wounds and woes forgot.
And still the rugged rock, fair plant,
Hath been thy lov’d, thy native soil;
Remote from Luxury’s deadly haunt,
Thy dwelling ’mongst the sons of toil.
Thy arms entwin’d around the rock,
And shrouded by a fleece of snow,
The tyrant-tempest thou canst mock,
That rudely strives to lay thee low.
Ye towering cliffs, your form upright,
The awful frown ye downward send,
Seem to portray that faithful knight,
Who to his foes would never bend.
I love thy gloom, thou cavern drear;
Such magic influence quite unfelt,
Where lordly domes their turrets rear;
—Here Freedom and her First-born dwelt.
Hence bursting, like the wrathful blast,
That issues from thy hollow glade,
To hostile Lanark Wallace pass’d,
And low the haughty Southeron laid.
But why a pledge so precious left?
Thou, Chieftain, might’st thy foes have known
—Of life thy lovely partner’s reft,
Of life—far dearer than thy own.
Base Hesilrig, I hate thy name!
Thy crime a Pompey’s praise would mar:
A woman slay!—thou soldier’s shame!
With women only could’st thou war.
Yet worthy thou of such a lord;
And school’d his purpose to fulfil,
No right who knowledg’d, but the sword,
No reason, save his sovereign will:
The forms of justice, if employ’d,
Who still her sacred essence scorn’d;
Each faithful witness first destroy’d,
Then Falsehood’s base-born brood suborn’d.
An ancient kingdom, could he think,
The scourge of his,—might thus be won?
Thy name, crown’d traitor, still shall stink,
While Albin boasts one freeborn son!
Thou, Edward, many a traitor vile,
—Thy kindred true—didst aggrandize:
Nor force, nor flattery,—dastard guile
Alone, could Wallace make thy prize.
Him—who could not be taught to crouch,
Nor grace, nor justice, thine to save:
Thou knew’st our Lion ne’er would couch,
While Wallace liv’d his keeper brave.
His name, who Scotia’s fetters broke,
Shall never lose its power to charm,
Who liv’d to shield her,—dying spoke
The weakness of her spoiler’s arm.