Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
Narrative Poems: IX. ScotlandThe Heart of the Bruce
William Edmondstoune Aytoun (1813–1865)I
While yet the frost lay hoar,
We heard Lord James’s bugle-horn
Sound by the rocky shore.
All in our dark array,
And flung our armor in the ships
That rode within the bay.
But gazed in silence back,
Where the long billows swept away
The foam behind our track.
Upon the fading hill,
And but one heart in all that ship
Was tranquil, cold, and still.
And O, his face was wan!
Unlike the flush it used to wear
When in the battle-van.—
Sir Simon of the Lee;
There is a freit lies near my soul
I fain would tell to thee.
Upon his dying day:
How he bade take his noble heart
And carry it far away;
Where once the Saviour trod,
Since he might not bear the blessèd Cross,
Nor strike one blow for God.
I dreamed a dreary dream:—
Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand
In the moonlight’s quivering beam.
Snow-white his scattered hairs,
And even such a cross he bore
As good Saint Andrew bears.
‘With spear and belted brand?
Why do you take its dearest pledge
From this our Scottish land?
Creeps through its groves of palm,
The olives on the Holy Mount
Stand glittering in the calm.
Shall rest, by God’s decree,
Till the great angel calls the dead
To rise from earth and sea!
That heart shall pass once more
In fiery fight against the foe,
As it was wont of yore.
And save King Robert’s vow;
But other hands shall bear it back,
Not, James of Douglas, thou!’
Sir Simon of the Lee,—
For truer friend had never man
Than thou hast been to me,—
’T is mine in life to tread,
Bear thou to Scotland’s kindly earth
The relics of her dead.”
As he wrung the warrior’s hand,—
“Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I ’ll hold by thy command.
’T is ours once more to ride,
Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend,
Shall cleave me from thy side!”
Across the weary sea,
Until one morn the coast of Spain
Rose grimly on our lee.
Beneath the watch-tower’s wall,
We heard the clash of the atabals,
And the trumpet’s wavering call.
So wantonly and long,
And whose the crowd of armèd men
That round yon standard throng?”
To spoil and waste and slay,
And King Alonzo of Castile
Must fight with them to-day.”
“Shall never be said of me
That I and mine have turned aside
From the Cross in jeopardie!
Have down unto the plain;
We ’ll let the Scottish lion loose
Within the fields of Spain!”
Thou and thy stalwart power;
Dear is the sight of a Christian knight,
Who comes in such an hour!
Or yet for golden fee?
Or bring ye France’s lilies here,
Or the flower of Burgundie?”
Thee and thy belted peers,—
Sir James of Douglas am I called.
And these are Scottish spears.
Nor yet for golden fee;
But for the sake of our Blessèd Lord,
Who died upon the tree.
Across the weltering wave,
To lay it in the holy soil
Hard by the Saviour’s grave.
Where danger bars the way;
And therefore are we here, Lord King,
To ride with thee this day!”
And the tears were in his eyne,—
“God’s blessing on thee, noble knight,
For this brave thought of thine!
And honored may I be,
That those who fought beside the Bruce
Should fight this day for me!
And charge the Moors amain;
There is not such a lance as thine
In all the host of Spain!”
O, but his glance was high!—
“There is not one of all my men
But is as bold as I.
But bears as true a spear,—
Then onward, Scottish gentlemen,
And think King Robert ’s here!”
The arrows flashed like flame,
As spur in side and spur in rest,
Against the foe we came.
Went down, both horse and man;
For through their ranks we rode like corn,
So furiously we ran!
Though fain to let us through,
For they were forty thousand men,
And we were wondrous few.
So dense was their array,
But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade
Still held them hard at bay.
“Make in, my brethren dear!
Sir William of St. Clair is down;
We may not leave him here!”
And sharper shot the rain,
And the horses reared amid the press,
But they would not charge again.
“Thou kind and true St. Clair!
An’ if I may not bring thee off,
I ’ll die beside thee there!”
So lion-like and bold,
And held the precious heart aloft,
All in its case of gold.
And never spake he more,
But—“Pass thou first, thou dauntless heart,
As thou were wont of yore!”
And heavier still the stour,
Till the spears of Spain came shivering in,
And swept away the Moor.
They fly, o’er flood and fell,—
Why dost thou draw the rein so hard,
Good knight, that fought so well?”
“And leave the dead to me,
For I must keep the dreariest watch
That ever I shall dree!
The Douglas, stark and grim;
And woe is me I should be here,
Not side by side with him!
And thin my lyart hair,
And all that I loved best on earth
Is stretched before me there.
Beneath the sun of May!
The heaviest cloud that ever blew
Is bound for you this day.
In sorrow and in pain,
The sorest stroke upon thy brow
Hath fallen this day in Spain!
We ’ll bear them o’er the sea,
And lay them in the hallowed earth
Within our own countrie.
For this I tell thee sure,
The sod that drank the Douglas’ blood
Shall never bear the Moor!”
He flung his brand away,
And took the Douglas by the hand,
So stately as he lay.
That fought so well for Spain;
I ’d rather half my land were gone,
So thou wert here again!”
And the priceless heart we bore,
And heavily we steered our ship
Towards the Scottish shore.
Nor clang of martial tread,
But all were dumb and hushed as death
Before the mighty dead.
The heart in fair Melrose;
And woful men were we that day,—
God grant their souls repose!