Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Poems. I. The Lay of Sir William WallaceMenella Bute Smedley (18201877)
T
Are round me as I stand;
The torrent hoar doth sternly roar,
The lake lies calm and grand;
The altars of the living rock
’Neath yon blue skies are bare,
And a thousand mountain-voices mock
Mine accents on the air.
Whether in morn’s bright hues,
Or in the veil, so soft, so pale,
Woven by twilight dews,
God’s bounty pours from sun and cloud,
Beauty on shore and wave,—
I lift my hands, I cry aloud,
Man shall not make thee slave.
Most eloquent, though dumb,—
Sky, shore, and seas, light, mist, and breeze,
Receive me when I come!
How could I in this holy place,
Stand with unstainèd brow,
How look on earth’s accursing face,
If I forget my vow?
Who gives himself to stand,
Steadfast and sleepless as a star,
Watching his fatherland;
Strong must his will be, and serene,
His spirit pure and bright,
His conscience vigilant and keen,
His arm an arm of might.
Sealed as a sacred spring,
Self must he spurn, and set apart
As an unholy thing;
Misconstrued where he loves the best,
Where most he hopes, betrayed,
The quenchless watchfire in his breast
Must neither fail nor fade.
Than earthly lips may tell;—
Not in the end, but in the deed,
Doth truest honour dwell.
His land is one vast monument,
Bearing the record high
Of a spirit with itself content,
And a name that cannot die!
Fame, pleasure, love, and life;
Blest for a cause so high, to live
In ceaseless, hopeless strife:
For this to die, with sword in hand,
Oh, blessed and honoured thrice!
God, countrymen, and fatherland,
Accept the sacrifice!