I heard the Abbott’s stern charge asking the heroic King if he knew reason aught, why his curse should not be pronounced in requital of that rash deed at the high altar of the Church of Dumfries. I heard the eloquent defense of the King, and the unexpected and sublime blessing of the Abbott. “Abbott!” the Bruce replied, “thy charge It boots not to dispute at large. This much, howe’er, I bid thee know, No selfish vengeance dealt the blow, For Comyn died his country’s foe. Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed Fulfilled my soon-repented deed, Nor censure those from whose stern tongue The dire anathema has rung. I only blame my own wild ire, By Scotland’s wrongs incensed to fire. Heaven knows my purpose to atone, Far as I may, the evil done, And hears a penitent’s appeal From papal curse and prelate’s zeal. My first and dearest task achieved, Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved, Shall many a priest in cope and stole Say requiem for Red Comyn’s soul. While I the blessed cross advance, And expiate this unhappy chance In Palestine, with sword and lance. But, while content the Church should know My conscience owns the debt I owe, Unto De Argentine and Lorn The name of traitor I return, Bid them defiance stern and high, And give them in their throats the lie; These brief words spoke, I speak no more, Do what thou wilt; my shrift is o’er.” Like man by prodigy amazed, Upon the king the abbott gazed; Then o’er his pallid features glance Convulsions of ecstatic trance, And undistinguished accents broke The awful silence ere he spoke. “De Bruce! I rose with purpose dread To speak my curse upon thy head, To give thee as an outcast o’er To him who burns to shed thy gore; But, like the Midianite of old, Who stood on Zophim, heaven-controlled, I feel within my aged breast A power that will not be repress’d. It prompts my voice, it swells my veins, It burns, it maddens, it constrains!— De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow Hath at God’s altar slain thy foe: O’ermastered yet by high behest, I bless thee, and thou shalt be blest! Blessed in the hall and in the field, Under the mantle as the shield. Avenger of thy country’s shame, Restorer of her injured fame, Blessed in thy scepter and thy sword, De Bruce, fair Scotland’s rightful lord, Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame, What lengthened honors wait thy name! In distant ages sire to son Shall tell thy tale of freedom won, And teach his infants in the use Of earliest speech to falter Bruce.” There is nothing, to my mind, in any poem more dramatic than this unexpected prayer of the abbott; and the reader does not wonder that “O’er the astonished throng Was silence, awful, deep and long.”