Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Spain, Portugal, Belgium, and Holland: Vols. XIV–XV. 1876–79.
The Heart of King Robert Bruce
By Lydia Huntley Sigourney (1791–1865)K
The strife of mortal pain,
And, gathering round the couch of death,
His nobles mourned in vain.
Bathed were his brows in chilling dew
As thus he faintly cried,
“Red Comyn in his sins I slew
At the high altar’s side.
In armed lists to ride,
A warrior to that Holy Ground
Where my Redeemer died:
Lord James of Douglas, see! we part!
I die before my time,
I charge thee bear this pulseless heart
A pilgrim to that clime.”
With fierce and fatal strife,
He came, who treads with icy foot
Upon the lamp of life.
The brave Earl Douglas, trained to meet
Dangers and perils wild,
Now kneeling at his sovereign’s feet
Wept as a weaned child.
Enwrapt in cloth of gold,
The Bruce’s relics found a grave
Deep in their native mould;
But locked within its silver vase,
Next to Lord James’s breast,
His heart went journeying on apace,
In Palestine to rest.
With sable shield and plume,
Rode as its guard in armor bright
To kiss their Saviour’s tomb.
As on the scenery of Spain
They bent a traveller’s eye,
Forth came in bold and glorious train,
Her flower of chivalry.
They came in proud array,
And set their serried phalanx sure
To bide the battle-fray.
“God save ye now, ye gallant band
Of Scottish warriors true,
Good service for the Holy Land
Ye on this field may do.”
In brother’s grasp they closed,
And the grim Saracen in vain
Their blended might opposed;
But Douglas, with his falcon-glance
O’erlooking crest and spear,
Saw brave St. Clair with broken lance,
That friend from childhood dear.
Opprest and overborne,
And high the blast of rescue rose
From his good bugle-horn;
And reckless of the Moorish spears
In bristling ranks around,
His monarch’s heart oft steeped in tears
He from his neck unbound,
And cried with panting breath,
“Pass first, my liege, as thou wert wont,—
I follow thee to death.”
Stern Osmyn’s sword was dire that day,
And keen the Moorish dart,
And there Earl Douglas bleeding lay
Beside the Bruce’s heart.
That peerless champion fell,
And still the lyre to future years
His glorious deeds shall tell.
The “good Lord James” that honored name
Each Scottish babe shall call,
And all who love the Bruce’s fame
Shall mourn the Douglas’ fall.