THE HEART OF THE BRUCE
PART I
The good Lord Douglas paced the deck,
And oh, his face was wan!
Unlike the flush it used to wear
When in the battle-van.—
“Come hither, come hither, my trusty Knight,
Sir Simon of the Lee;
There is a freit lies near my soul
I fain would tell to thee.
“Thou know’st the words King Robert spoke
Upon his dying day:
How he bade me take his noble Heart
And carry it far away;
“And lay it in the holy soil
Where once the Saviour trod,
Since he might not bear the blessed Cross,
Nor strike one blow for God.
“Last night as in my bed I lay,
I dreamed a dreary dream:—
Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand
In the moonlight’s quivering beam.
“His robe was of the azure dye,
Snow-white his scattered hairs,
And even such a cross he bore
As good Saint Andrew bears.
“‘Why go ye forth, Lord James,’ he said,
‘With spear and belted brand?
Why do you take its dearest pledge
From this our Scottish land?
“‘The sultry breeze of Galilee
Creeps through its groves of palm,
The olives on the Holy Mount
Stand glittering in the calm.
“‘But ’tis not there that Scotland’s Heart
Shall rest by God’s decree,
Till the great Angel calls the dead
To rise from earth and sea!
“‘Lord James of Douglas, mark my rede!
That Heart shall pass once more
In fiery fight against the foe,
As it was wont of yore.
“‘And it shall pass beneath the Cross,
And save King Robert’s vow;
But other hands shall bear it back,
Not, James of Douglas, thou!’
“Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray,
Sir Simon of the Lee—
For truer friend had never man
Than thou hast been to me—
“If ne’er upon the Holy Land
’Tis mine in life to tread,
Bear thou to Scotland’s kindly earth
The relics of her dead.”
The tear was in Sir Simon’s eye
As he wrung the warrior’s hand—
“Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I’ll hold by thy command.
“But if in battle-front, Lord James,
’Tis ours once more to ride,
Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend,
Shall cleave me from thy side!”
PART II
And aye we sailed and aye we sailed,
Across the weary sea,
Until one morn the coast of Spain
Rose grimly on our lee.
And as we rounded to the port,
Beneath the watch-tower’s wall,
We heard the clash of the atabals,
And the trumpet’s wavering call.
“Why sounds yon Eastern music here
So wantonly and long,
And whose the crowd of armed men
That round yon standard throng?”
“The Moors have come from Africa
To spoil and waste and slay,
And King Alonzo of Castile
Must fight with them to-day.”
“Now shame it were,” cried good Lord James,
“Shall never be said of me,
That I and mine have turned aside
From the Cross in jeopardie!
“Have down, have down, my merrymen all—
Have down unto the plain;
We’ll let the Scottish lion loose
Within the fields of Spain!”
“Now welcome to me, noble Lord,
Thou and thy stalwart power;
Dear is the sight of a Christian Knight,
Who comes in such an hour!
“Is it for bond or faith you come,
Or yet for golden fee?
Or bring ye France’s lilies here,
Or the flower of Burgundie?”
“God greet thee well, thou valiant King,
Thee and thy belted peers—
Sir James of Douglas am I called,
And these are Scottish spears.
“We do not fight for bond or plight,
Nor yet for golden fee;
But for the sake of our blessed Lord,
Who died upon the tree.
“We bring our great King Robert’s Heart
Across the weltering wave,
To lay it in the holy soil
Hard by the Saviour’s grave.
“True Pilgrims we, by land or sea,
Where danger bars the way;
And therefore are we here, Lord King,
To ride with thee this day!”
The King has bent his stately head,
And the tears were in his eyne—
“God’s blessing on thee, noble Knight,
For this brave thought of thine!
“I know thy name full well, Lord James;
And honoured may I be,
That those who fought beside the Bruce
Should fight this day for me!
“Take thou the leading of the van,
And charge the Moors amain;
There is not such a lance as thine
In all the host of Spain!”
The Douglas turned towards us then,
Oh, but his glance was high!—
“There is not one of all my men
But is as bold as I.
“There is not one of all my Knights
But bears as true a spear—
Then onwards, Scottish gentlemen,
And think King Robert’s here!”
PART III
The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew,
The arrows flashed like flame,
As spur in side, and spear in rest,
Against the foe we came.
And many a bearded Saracen
Went down, both horse and man;
For through their ranks we rode like corn,
So furiously we ran!
But in behind our path they closed,
Though fain to let us through,
For they were forty thousand men,
And we were wondrous few.
We might not see a lance’s length,
So dense was their array,
But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade
Still held them hard at bay.
“Make in! make in!” Lord Douglas cried—
“Make in, my brethren dear!
Sir William of Saint Clair is down;
We may not leave him here!”
But thicker, thicker grew the swarm,
And sharper shot the rain,
And the horses reared amid the press,
But they would not charge again.
“Now Jesu help thee,” said Lord James,
“Thou kind and true Saint Clair!
An’ if I may not bring thee off,
I’ll die beside thee there!”
Then in his stirrups up he stood,
So lionlike and bold,
And held the precious Heart aloft
All in its case of gold.
He flung it from him, far ahead,
And never spake he more,
But—“Pass thee first, thou dauntless Heart,
As thou wert wont of yore!”
The roar of fight rose fiercer yet,
And heavier still the stour,
Till the spears of Spain came shivering in,
And swept away the Moor.
“Now praised be God, the day is won!
They fly o’er flood and fell—
Why dost thou draw the rein so hard,
Good Knight, that fought so well?”
“Oh, ride ye on, Lord King!” he said,
“And leave the dead to me,
For I must keep the dreariest watch
That ever I shall dree!
“There lies, above his master’s Heart,
The Douglas, stark and grim;
And woe is me I should be here,
Not side by side with him!”
The King he lighted from his horse,
He flung his brand away,
And took the Douglas by the hand,
So stately as he lay.
“God give thee rest, thou valiant soul!
That fought so well for Spain;
I’d rather half my land were gone,
So thou wert here again!”
We bore the good Lord James away,
And the priceless Heart we bore,
And heavily we steered our ship
Towards the Scottish shore.
No welcome greeted our return,
Nor clang of martial tread,
But all were dumb and hushed as death
Before the mighty dead.
We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,
The Heart in fair Melrose;
And woeful men were we that day—
God grant their souls repose!
William Edmondstoune Aytoun. (Condensed)
BARCLAY OF URY
Up the streets of Aberdeen,
By the kirk and college green,
Rode the Laird of Ury;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
Pressed the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving-girl,
Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury’s gate,
Cursed him as he passed her.
Yet, with calm and stately mien,
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Came he slowly riding;
And, to all he saw and heard,
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.
Came a troop with broadswords swinging,
Bits and bridles sharply ringing,
Loose and free and froward;
Quoth the foremost, “Ride him down!
Push him! prick him! through the town
Drive the Quaker coward!”
But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud;
“Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!”
And the old man at his side
Saw a comrade, battle-tried,
Scarred and sunburned darkly,
Who with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,
Cried aloud: “God save us!
Call ye coward him who stood
Ankle deep in Lützen’s blood,
With the brave Gustavus?”
“Nay, I do not need thy sword,
Comrade mine,” said Ury’s lord;
“Put it up, I pray thee:
Passive to His holy will,
Trust I in my Master still,
Even though He slay me.
“Pledges of thy love and faith,
Proved on many a field of death,
Not by me are needed.”
Marvelled much that henchman bold,
That his Laird, so stout of old,
Now so meekly pleaded.
“Woe’s the day!” he sadly said,
With a slowly shaking head,
And a look of pity;
“Ury’s honest lord reviled,
Mock of knave and sport of child,
In his own good city!
“Speak the word, and, master mine,
As we charged on Tilly’s line,
And his Walloon lancers,
Smiting thro’ their midst we’ll teach
Civil look and decent speech
To these boyish prancers!”
“Marvel not, mine ancient friend,
Like beginning, like the end,”
Quoth the Laird of Ury;
“Is the sinful servant more
Than his gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?
“Give me joy that in His name,
I can bear, with patient frame,
All these vain ones offer;
While for them He suffereth long,
Shall I answer wrong with wrong,
Scoffing with the scoffer?
“Happier I, with loss of all,
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,
With few friends to greet me,
Than when reeve and squire were seen,
Riding out from Aberdeen,
With bared heads to meet me.
“When each goodwife, o’er and o’er,
Blessed me as I passed her door;
And the snooded daughter,
Through her casement glancing down,
Smiled on him who bore renown
From red fields of slaughter.
“Hard to feel the stranger’s scoff,
Hard the old friend’s falling off,
Hard to learn forgiving;
But the Lord His own rewards,
And His love with theirs accords,
Warm and fresh and living.
“Through this dark and stormy night
Faith beholds a feeble light,
Up the blackness streaking;
Knowing God’s own time is best,
In a patient hope I rest
For the full day-breaking!”
So the Laird of Ury said,
Turning slow his horse’s head,
Towards the Tolbooth prison,
Where through iron gates he heard
Poor disciples of the Word
Preach of Christ arisen!
Not in vain, Confessor old,
Unto us the tale is told
Of thy day of trial;
Every age on him who strays
From its broad and beaten ways
Pours its seven-fold vial.
Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,
O’er the rabble’s laughter;
And while Hatred’s fagots burn,
Glimpses through the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.
Knowing this, that never yet
Share of Truth was vainly set
In the world’s wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands from hill and mead
Reap the harvests yellow.
Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,
Must the moral pioneer
From the future borrow;
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,
And, on midnight’s sky of rain,
Paint the golden morrow!
John Greenleaf Whittier