VIII.
Ye passions, that, with holy fire,
Illume man's bosom—that inspire
To daring deed, or proud desire,
With indignation burn!
Ye household charities, that keep
Watch over childhood's rosy sleep,
Ashes bestrew the hearthstone,—weep
As o'er a funeral urn!
IX.
On—on they speed. Oh dreary day,
That, like a vampire, drained away
The blood from Scotland's heart—delay,
Thou lingering sun to set!
Rain, twilight! rain down bloody dews
O'er all the eye far northward views;
Nor do thou, night of nights! refuse
A darkness black as jet.
X.
Heroic spirits of the dead!
That in the body nobly bled,
By whom the battle-field for bed
Was chosen, look ye down,—
And see if hearts are all grown cold,—
If for their just rights none are bold,—
If servile earth one bosom hold,
Worthy of old renown?
XI.
The pass-word given, o'er bridge of Tweed
The cavalcade, with slackened speed,
Rolled on, like one from night-mare freed,
That draws an easier breath;
But o'er and round it hung the gloom
As of some dark, mysterious doom,
Shadows cast forward from the tomb,
And auguries of death.
XII.
Scotland receded from the view,
And, on the far horizon blue,
Faded her last, dear hills—the mew
Screamed to its sea-isle near.
As day-beams ceased the west to flout,
Each after each the stars came out,
Like camp-fires heaven's high hosts about,
With lustre calm and clear.