Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done, To use his conquest boldly won: And gave command for horse and spear To press the Southern's scatter'd rear, Nor let his broken force combine, When the war-cry of Argentine Fell faintly on his ear! "Save, save his life," he cried. "O save The kind, the noble, and the brave!" The squadrons round free passage gave, The wounded knight drew near. He raised his red-cross shield no more, Helm, cuish, and breast-plate stream'd with gore. Yet, as he saw the King advance, He strove even then to couch his lance-- The effort was in vain! The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse; Wounded and weary, in 'mid course He tumbled on the plain. Then foremost was the generous Bruce To raise his head, his helm to loose:-- "Lord Earl, the day is thine! My sovereign's charge, and adverse fate, Have made our meeting all too late; Yet this may Argentine, As boon from ancient comrade, crave-- A Christian's Mass, a soldier's grave." Bruce pressed his dying hand--its grasp Kindly replied; but, in his clasp It stiffen'd and grew cold-- And, "O farewell!" the victor cried, Of chivalry the flower and pride, The arm in battle bold, The courteous mien, the noble race, The stainless faith, the manly face! Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine, For late-wake of De Argentine. O'er better knight on death-bier laid, Torch never gleamd, nor Mass was said! [1] [Footnote 1: It is said that the body of Sir Giles de Argentine was brought to Edinburgh, and interred with the greatest pomp in St. Giles' Church. Thus did the royal Bruce respond to the dying knight's request.] --_From "The Lord of the Isles"_ PRAY FOE THE MARTYRED DEAD. Pray for the Dead! When, conscienceless, the nations Rebellious rose to smite the thorn-crowned Head Of Christendom, their proudest aspirations Ambitioned but a place amongst the dead. Pray for the Dead! The seeming fabled story of early chivalry, in them renewed, Shines out to-day with an ascendent glory Above that field of parricidal feud. The children of a persecuted mother, When nations heard the drum of battle beat, Through coward Europe, brother leagued with brother, Rallied and perished at her sacred feet. O Ireland, ever waiting the To-morrow, Lift up thy widowed, venerable head, Exultingly, through thy maternal sorrow, Not comfortless, like Rachel, for thy dead. For, where the crimson shock of battle thundered, From hosts precipitated on a few, Above thy sons, outnumbered, crushed and sundered, Thy green flag through the smoke and glitter flew. Lift up thy head! The hurricane that dashes Its giant billows on the Rock of Time, Divests thee, mother, of thy weeds and ashes, Rendering, at least, thy grief sublime.